


I'm Here to Kick A**

by rose_eserede



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: But there is light at the end of the tunnel, Everyone is BAMF, Government agency au, Lucien needs love and deserves more, Multi, Past Abuse, Rhys and Lucien are frenemies, Tamlin is a tool, everyone is a spy, everyone knows Tamlin sucks, mafia, oneshots, rhys is beautiful, sorta?, stuff will happen, wth is tagging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:58:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15184256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_eserede/pseuds/rose_eserede
Summary: Feyre is one of the Prythian government's newest recruits and seems to be having a hard time. Courses are difficult, her superior is an ass and the assignments can be downright deadly, but she's Feyre Archeron. A hard time is what she's used to; at least this time around it involves attractive people, juicy state secrets and perhaps even love.Or really good sex. Either one is an option.A series of one shots and mini plot-arcs. Tags will be added as the story progresses. Submit requests!





	1. Hello, My Name is Lucien and I'm Stuck as Your Guide

**Author's Note:**

> This has been drifting in my head for a while and I'm not sure if someone has done something similar so I'm giving it a shot. I also firmly believe that Lucien deserves more for what he's been through, so we'll see what can be done about that! (He's also my favourite and needs more love) I haven't finished all the books yet, but this begged to be written. If someone's OOC, let me know. Enjoy the show!

The car pulled into a pristine gravel drive, the rock crunching under the tires. Feyre stared dispassionately out the window at the manicured grounds and manor, silently pondering who made the decision to house a private government training facility in Hogwarts. The manor was made of warm brown stone, had windows with pewter panes and small stone lions mounted on the walls; it was beautiful and very obviously old and very much not her style. Not that she was complaining. Almost anything was a step up from _there_ , and a beautiful manor with a lot of acreage would have very few people complaining. A voice in her head whispered exactly what colours she would use to capture the vibrancy of the grass on a canvas.

As soon as the car was stopped, Feyre stepped out and made her way to the trunk. The ride over with her driver had been completely silent and very awkward. All Feyre wanted to do was find some food, process what the hell had happened in the past few weeks, and sleep. She didn’t care if the car door was slammed a little harder than necessary; she was hungry, tired, jet-lagged and cranky, so slamming a door was a very forgivable thing.

Feyre had just been wrapping up her gap year and was settling her finances for school when the letter had arrived. It had been hand delivered by a beast of a man who claimed he worked for the government of Prythian, and he'd handed her the letter, suggested she read it, and said he'd come collect her three weeks from then. The end.

And so here she was, climbing out of a very attractive but unsociable stranger’s car in front of a small castle while her family sat on a good chunk of the money she'd earned over her gap year and a fat check from the Prythian government.

Whoop di doo.

Just as she reached to open the trunk, her driver’s golden hand slammed down on top of hers, stilling her movements.

“Er, excuse me? I'm trying to get my luggage.” Feyre gave the man a firm glare before ripping her hand from beneath his.

The man looked down at her a moment before replying, his voice deep and apathetic. “The staff will leave your bags in your room. You need to take the tour.” With one more glance he turned and walked away, leaving Feyre staring at his retreating back and completely alone.

 

* * *

The foyer was just as beautiful as the outside of the manor, if a bit old fashioned. A crystal chandelier scattered light across pale green wallpaper, and the space was furnished in honey-coloured wood. A few overstuffed armchairs were scattered around, and in one of them sat a man.

He was reading a book, cross-legged and bouncing the foot resting on his knee. Long bronze fingers tapped the cover in a short, repetitive pattern. A curtain of red hair concealed his face from Feyre’s view, but if the rest of him were anything to go by, it would be sharp and attractive. His navy blazer, collared shirt and fitted trousers lent his careless lounging a calculated air.

“Is there something you want from me, or are you just going to keep staring?” asked the man without looking up from his book. Feyre blinked from her musings and flushed slightly at being caught.

“I was sent here for a tour…? If we can just get this over with that’d be great because I really need some sleep…” she trailed off, her irritated tone fading to nothing. He's looked up at her as she spoke, and now she really was staring, but not just because his face was attractive.

It was almost exactly as she'd assumed. He was made of sharp angles, all bronze cheekbones and ethereal symmetry. But what really had her staring were his eyes.

One was a warm russet brown and gazed coolly up at her. The other was a vibrant gold, the colour marking it obviously false, and seemed to stare through her soul. A vicious scar traveled down that side of his face, bisecting his eyebrow and the eye itself, stopping just above his jaw.

The red haired man noticed what her attention was fixated on, and his voice cooled. “Well then, Feyre, we can’t afford for you to lose your beauty sleep.” The barb in his words was not missed by her, and Feyre internally cringed.

He strode away without her, and she was left to jog after him.

Day 1 and already alienating the staff. Great.

 

* * *

The man introduced himself as Lucien, then launched straight into the tour.

“This division of the Prythian government deals with intelligence on an international scale. The building you are in now houses most of the facilities. The space is divided into several divisions, or courts, as we call them. We're in Spring, where you'll most likely be spending your time. This is where basic training takes place. Get used to it; I think you'll be here a while.”

They turned a corner to continue the tour when a doubt niggled at the back of Feyre’s mind. She stopped walking, and Lucien whirled around with an impatient huff.

“How do you know my name? I didn’t introduced myself in the foyer yet you used my name.” Feyre's question came out more as a demand, but that was no love lost between them.

Lucien only smirked at her, his golden eye unnervingly fixed on her face. “It's my job to know everyone that breathes within a mile of this place.”

“Is that required of all the house staff or just you?” Feyre wasn't sure if this was curiosity speaking, or her strange urge to get on his nerves.

“It's not required of any of the house staff. Are you quite done with the questions? If you're literate, the handbook is on your side table. If you're not-” here the corner of his lips pulled up again, and Feyre ached to take him down a notch because he obviously knew of her dyslexia and was intentionally pushing her buttons.. “-you’ll just have to shut up and listen.”

Feyre never was fond of obeying people who pushed her around. “And if you're not house staff, why're you giving me the grand tour?”

Lucien scoffed. “Hell if I know.” He looked pointedly at her cheap sweats and rumpled t-shirt before continuing down the hall, his movements graceful and serene. “But it’s way below my pay grade.”

“Are you always such an ass, or is it just to me?”

 _Oh, shit._ Feyre immediately froze. She had just blatantly insulted someone who dressed, moved and spoke like they were very important, but with a little thought realized that he fully deserved it. So Feyre straightened her spine and stared him down as Lucien turned to face her.

“Don't for one moment think you're special in anything.” His words were delivered with a hidden bite to their honeyed tone, but the low chuckle that followed soothed the sting. Turning to face her his smirk was more of a smile, and something bright gleamed in his eyes. “I think I'm starting to like you.”

 

* * *

The tour continued, with Lucien’s continued taunts just slightly less acerbic. He took her through the Summer, Winter and Dawn courts, and Feyre’s fingers itched for her cheap paints and brushes she'd left at home. Each court had its own colour scheme, and the doors which separated them were heavy wood and beautifully carved with motifs representing the court they would be entering. She wanted to paint all of it.

They'd stopped in front of the door to the Day court, Feyre’s mind wandering and Lucien still talking about gods-know-what.

Suddenly there was the frantic shuffling of many people from the other side of the door, and a muffled ‘excuse me, sorry, _move_!’ leached through the heavy wood. The door was violently wrenched open and a woman sprinted through, colliding directly with Feyre. The box she was carrying toppled to the ground, and she was immediately on her knees picking things up and replacing them. Lucien followed suit, helping without a word.

“I'm so sorry, but I have to run-” Feyre's hands joined hers in picking up the various papers strewn across the hall, and the woman looked up.

Her dark hair was a mess, a halo of flyaways escaping from what was once a tidy bun. She had a pretty face, pale and smooth with well-defined features. Her chocolate-coloured eyes were a little more almond than round and tired, with tears brimming in them.

She and Lucien were speaking so quickly that Feyre really had to concentrate to follow.

“Rose, what are you doing here, aren't you on call? Where's the escort to let you through?” Lucien asked, concern colouring his voice.

“I went to assist in unloading the air evac and didn't really look at who it was until we were trying to stabilize him… they sent me out when they had him cleaned up enough to identify his face and know I was close with him. So here I am, collecting documents he needs to sign before he passes to keep myself occupied so I can get through the last few hours of my shift.” She pulled a plastic key card from her pocket and tossed it to Lucien. “I nicked this from Tam to get in all the doors and I don't need it going out. Could you slip it back for me? I'll owe you one.”

Feyre took a closer look at her and noted Rose was wearing blood smeared hospital scrubs. “You're covered in blood,” she pointed out, and immediately berated herself for stating the obvious.

Rose gave a slightly strained smile and hastily stuck her hand out for Feyre to shake. “Hello, Feyre, I'm Dr. Rosalind, a trauma surgeon here. I've heard much about you. We’ll have to chat later-”

“Oh, gods,” choked Lucien. He sat back roughly on his heels, one hand fisted in his hair and the other clamped over his mouth. On the ground in front of him was a document with the name ‘Andras’ printed in bold. Rosalind gently removed the paper, the last one, and placed it in the box. She laid one small hand against his forearm, then leaned over and gently brushed her lips against his cheek.

“I'm so sorry, Lu.” A breath in, a breath out, and a clinical mask settled over her pretty features. “Good luck with your tour.” And with that she picked up the box and ran off, weaving through the people in the hall.

When she'd disappeared, Feyre turned to Lucien. The raw emotion she’d just witnessed was gone, replaced with a stiff composure. He rose and brushed off his trousers, motioning for her to get up. “Who’s Andras?”

Lucien almost growled. “A dear friend of mine, and someone I've got to deal with Tamlin about.” He whirled on his heel, his curtain of red hair fanning out behind him. “I'll take you to your room. In a few hours make your way to Tamlin’s office and he should be available to discuss what you're actually here for.” His words were tight and clipped, and Feyre decided that following him without provocation would probably be safest.

 

* * *

Feyre flopped on her bed, toeing off her shoes and sighing. She'd showered, changed and unpacked, not that she'd brought much. Just her clothes, some toiletries and her battered sketchbook. She picked up the coil-bound book and flipped it to one of the few blank pages, grabbed a pencil and started sketching some of the Spring motifs that detailed her room. It wasn't quite like painting, but it would have to do.

When the sun was beginning its downward arc, Feyre decided that enough time had passed. Exchanging her sketchbook for the map on her sidetable, she jammed her feet into her old converse and hesitantly made her way out the door. The halls were painted green with honey-coloured wood floors, just like every part of this court. The tapping of her soles made Feyre glance around, wondering why the halls were completely empty of people.

Following the map to Tamlin’s office, Feyre passed a large dining hall with the sounds of clamouring people laughing, eating and talking spilling out into the hall. Through all the hustle and bustle, Feyre had forgotten that she was absolutely ravenous. But she didn’t want her first impression on Tamlin to be one of tardiness, so all she afforded herself was one longing look at the caf before she trekked on.

Tamlin’s office had no reception area, nor were there chairs in the hallway. Feyre was left leaning against the wall, admiring the pattern of the curling vines in the paper. Raised voices drifted through to the hallway, and a closer inspection revealed the heavy door had been left slightly ajar. Barely a thought was given to the sins of eavesdropping before her eye was pressed as close to the gap as possible.

Inside the office was Lucien and… her chauffeur? having a very heated discussion. Lucien was planted firmly in front of the other man, gesticulating as he spoke. His eyes flashed angrily, though none of this seemed to have any effect on the man other than to make him angry. The other man was absolutely massive. _Built like a brick shit house,_ thought Feyre. Feyre herself was tall, Lucien was taller, yet the man towered over the redhead.

“...you need to _stop this_ . You’re sending out your men, your _friends_ , to die senseless deaths that could have been avoided!” Lucien’s voice was filled with fire, and his hands fisted at his sides. “Now Andras is dead, and that’s on _you._ ”

The man crossed his arms over his chest, and a dangerous aura thickened the air. “I had no choice, Lucien,” he growled.

“Oh, _you_ _had a choice._ Just because hitting everything is the only order you seem capable of giving does not make it the only option available, and it most definitely is not the right one.” The man stiffened, yet Lucien continued. “Other courts are noticing that Spring has one of the highest mission fatality rates. If you don’t start rubbing your two brain cells together and make smarter choices, someone will do something about it and it won’t be pretty-.”

“ _ENOUGH!”_ A resounding _CRACK_ split the air, and Feyre nearly banged her head against the door in shock. Lucien was staring at the floor, one hand pressed to his scarred cheek. A look of shock and fleeting remorse crossed the other man’s face before being replaced by an indifferent mask. When Lucien looked up, a fire burned so bright in his remaining russet eye that Feyre almost took a step back.

“Fuck you, Tamlin,” he ground out. Lucien removed his hand from his face, revealing a stark print on the bronze skin.

Tamlin ( _Tamlin?_ thought Feyre, _Tamlin was my driver?_ ) gave him a steady look. “Is that how you speak to your superiors?”

Lucien stiffly saluted him, mockery and scorn dripping from the gesture. “Fuck you, _sir._ ” Then he spun on his heel and strode out the door, almost knocking her over.

“Next time Feyre,” he called, half way down the hall, “don't drop your eaves so loudly. I could hear you breathe.”

Feyre cautiously entered Tamlin’s office, standing awkwardly in front of the large beech desk. There was a chair, but she sure as hell wasn't going to sit after what she'd just witnessed. To add to her unease, an impressive looking rack of firearms loomed on the wall behind the desk. She had no idea if any were loaded, and had no intention to stick around and find out.

“Feyre.” Tamlin gestured for her to sit, but she just nodded at him and stayed standing.

“Hi.” Tamlin frowned a little at the defiance, but no further confrontation was offered.

“This is going to take a while, so you might want to sit.”

“No, I'm good, thanks.”

A moment's pause, then Tamlin shoved a small pile of pamphlets and papers at her. “In there is your schedule, your course outlines, the rules and restrictions, staff list, and grounds map. Now, if you look at your course outlines-”

Feyre cleared her throat, glancing at the clock. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to leave. I’m meeting someone regarding my room in a few minutes.” A lie. “I’ll ask them to go through the details with me after the meeting.” Hopefully not a lie.

Tamlin looked mildly surprised but didn’t question her about the meeting. “What about your dyslexia?”

“I’ve learned to work through it.” Not a lie. Mostly.

“Alright then.” Feyre didn’t need further dismissal to get the hell away from that man. She walked down the halls to the cafeteria, papers in hand and the sound of Tamlin hitting Lucien echoing in her ears.

 

* * *

The cafeteria food was surprisingly good, which Feyre was thankful for. ‘Good’ was relative though, she had a feeling almost anything would taste better than canned soup and pizza.

By now most of the long tables were empty, everyone having finished their meals and left. She’d caught the hot-food lady just before they started cleaning up dinner, and her plate was now heaped with steaming meats and vegetables.

Feyre looked around the near-empty dining hall, picked a table at random and began to make her way over to enjoy her meal in silence.

Her plans were disrupted when a chipper “Feyre!” beckoned her across the hall. Though this government training program may not have been her choice at all, Feyre decided that if she had to go through with it, she might as well make a friend or two.

Rosalind was halfway through her own plate of food when Feyre sat down across from her. “Hey,” said Rose, smiling around her fork. “Did you get settled in?”

“If you mean by dumping my suitcase into a drawer, then yes, I settled in quite nicely.”

Rosalind laughed. “Oh, Feyre. I see why Lucien likes you. He needs someone to snap back, so don’t be shy. You can call me Rose if you’d like. Sorry for the rushed meeting earlier, I had to run.”

“That’s fine,” said Feyre. There was a beat of awkward silence before Rose picked up the conversation again.

“Have you seen Lucien around? I was supposed to meet him here, but he never showed.”

 _Yes, I saw him get beat by his boss not 10 minutes ago._ But that isn’t something you say about someone you just met to someone you also just met, so Feyre settled with a simple, “He left Tamlin’s office just as I went in about 10 minutes ago.”

Rose nodded, and picked at the fruit on her plate. “Are those all your courses?” she asked, pointing at the pile of papers Feyre had on the bench beside her. Feyre blinked at the abrupt change in topic.

“Yeah, I left the office before I could go through them with Tamlin.” Rose looked inquisitively at her but didn’t pry. Feyre was grateful for that small mercy; Rose seemed like the kind of person who enjoyed having their fingers in all the pots. Feyre was not quite ready to be a pot.

“I can help you with that if you’d like.” Without asking, Rose pushed away her half-untouched plate and moved to sit beside Feyre, scooping up all the papers and neatly arranging them on the table. She gave Feyre a once over, looking at her full plate. Feyre’s stomach growled, making her blush lightly. Rose chuckled. “You eat, and I’ll talk.”

Rose began sorting through the papers. Feyre went straight for the roast beef and _oh gods, roast beef had no business tasting this good._

Between Rose’s excited voice going through her schedule and the glorious food in front of her, Feyre decided that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Rose was going through the activities available on the grounds when Lucien stormed in. His hair was curtained around his face, hiding the hand-print marring his skin. Wordlessly, he sat down on the bench across from them and started eating the remaining food on Rose’s plate.

Rose paused in her dialogue at the clink of tableware. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

“Apologies,” he said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I was caught up in something.” He reached into his trouser pocket and tossed a crumpled sheet of paper onto the table before reaching behind him and slamming down a handgun.

Feyre jumped. “Whoa, why do you have a gun?”

Lucien pinned her with a flat stare. “I always have a gun.” His hand disappeared into his blazer, and a moment later a throwing knife slid onto the table. “And a knife.”

Rose uncrumpled the paper, laying it flat on the table for all to see. It was a colour print of Tamlin’s face with the eyes and forehead shot out. Feyre whistled and Rose’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “What’d he do to deserve this?”

Feyre could practically see the half-truth forming on his lips, so she answered instead. “Tamlin slapped him. Hard.”

Rose’s reaction was immediate. “Give me your face, Lucien.”

Lucien turned to Feyre and hissed at her, “A little louder, please, they didn’t quite hear you in China.”

Rose bent down beside Lucien, one knee on the bench for balance. She tucked his hair behind his ear and tilted his face to the light, her lips thinning at the large bruise forming. Her fingers brushed gently at the edges, making the red haired man wince. “That feels amazing, Rose, please poke the bruise harder.”

Rose hummed before straightening out and patting his other cheek. “I would, but I took an oath and you’re not worth breaking it. Feyre, could you watch him for a moment? I'm just going to grab something.” Rose walked briskly from the cafeteria, leaving the table’s two occupants staring at each other.

“You don't have to stay if you don't want to,” said Lucien. “I've learned my lesson long ago that it's easier to just listen to her when she gets like this than to face the consequences later.”

“But she's so…” Feyre searched for the right word. “...tiny.”

Lucien snorted in a very undignified manner. “Yeah, 5”3 and slim as a whip, but she's a force of nature. Makes her a damn good surgeon, and gives her a cool head during times of crisis.”

Feyre nodded. “What’s your job in all this? You and everyone else seem to know everything there is about me, but I know almost nothing at all and no one’s offering any information. All I know about you is your name and that you’re an ass.”

Lucien smirked. “I’m an emissary and hostage negotiator, but my contract with Spring also makes me Tamlin’s second.”

Feyre couldn’t help but be a little impressed, though she would sooner starve than show it to him. “How are you an emissary if the only thing that comes from your mouth is snark?”

“Oh Feyre, ye of little faith. I _do_ have a filter, but it’s less amusing than riling people up. Mixing emotions and negotiations is a rookie mistake.” Lucien grimaced and tapped his golden eye. “That’s one lesson I will never forget, and one mistake I have yet to repeat.”

Feyre’s own eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”

“How eloquent. There may be a politician in you after all.”

At that moment Rose strode in, catching Feyre just before she delivered a scathing retort. “Oh, don’t mind me,” said Rose, setting down a first aid kit and immediately prodding Lucien’s face. “I heard what he said. Tear into him.”

“I don’t think I need to, you doing your thing is making him flinch enough.” As if cued, Rose’s thumb brushed a particularly sensitive spot and Lucien drew away, hissing.

“Feyre, can you go through the kit and find me alcohol wipes and bruise cream?”

“Sure.” Feyre snapped open the box and rifled through its contents, setting a couple of the wipes aside. The bruise cream was more difficult to find. _Gauze, surgical tape, shock blanket, staple gun…?_ “What the hell?” asked Feyre, waving the staple gun in the air.

“Surgical stapler for extreme emergencies. Please don’t use that unless you’ve been trained.” Rose looked up from inspecting the bruising beside Lucien’s eye. “Actually, I’d rather you put that back in the box. Your waving around a staple gun is making me nervous.” Feyre mumbled an apology, replacing the stapler and handing Rose the bruise cream.

Rose smeared the cream onto Lucien’s face, ignoring his winces. “There’s some bruising really close to your eye. Did you feel contact there?”

“Can’t remember, my face was too busy being in pain.”

“You’re useless.” Feyre watched their interaction, not bothering to hide her amusement. “In that case, you’re going to have to take out your prosthetic. I need to check to see if the acrylic has made any lacerations on the tissue over the implant.”

“Feyre, you might not want to watch this,” said Lucien. He had ripped open one of the antiseptic wipes and was cleaning his hands. “I’m not sure if you’re queasy, but it’s not pretty.” Feyre recognized his words as more than just looking out for her; it was also a dismissal, a plea for privacy.

“Yeah, I’m heading back to my room for a closer look at my course outlines. I think you’re teaching my introductory firearms course.”

Lucien groaned. “Then thank gods it’s only two weeks.” Feyre laughed, gathered her papers and began to walk away. When she was halfway across the cafeteria, Lucien called to her again. She turned, but his back was to her and his hair blocked what Rose was doing in front of him. “New recruits have the first few days off. Rose and I are going riding tomorrow morning, if you’d like to join us.”

Feyre paused. Was the man who just asked her to ride horses the same one who’d been taunting her since her arrival?

He must have taken her hesitation for disinterest. Casually, he shrugged a shoulder and added, “If you don’t know how to ride, we can teach you. I’ve been riding since I was a kid.” Rose peeked over his head and gave her a wide smile and a thumbs up.

  
“Sounds good.” Something warmed in Feyre’s chest. Day 1 and two potential friends with an invitation to try something new?   _Not bad._


	2. Hello, Feyre Darling, Meet the Mafia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre prepares for the midsummer gala (read: Mor does most of it) after Rhys asked her to accompany him. How could she decline? Waiting for her is a night of good champagne, beautiful decorations, and the Mafia. 
> 
> Joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unusually fast, but I wanted to get the chapter out before I leave for Nova Scotia tomorrow. I took some liberties with this one, and I hope it's alright. Let me know if anyone is OOC. Enjoy!

“Feyre, you are a fricking  _godess_.”

Two weeks ago Feyre hadn’t been aware this ball was happening. It was the annual gala held on midsummer’s eve, an open invitation (and common knowledge) to anyone clearance level 3 and above. That had Feyre sighing in relief; she was only clearance level 2, and had feared that she’d been living under a rock when Mor had brought it up.

To convince Feyre to go, Mor had spilled the beans that Rhys was planning on inviting her, which had prompted a small explosive reaction. It ranged from “You’re kidding me.” to “What do I wear?!” to “Why hasn’t  _he_  asked me, then?”

The end result was Morrigan dragging Feyre from store to store for an entire afternoon after a three hour drive from the facility to the nearest city. Feyre had been ready to wear her pyjamas to the thing if it meant they could go home, but Mor had insisted on trying one more dress.

As Feyre looked at herself in the mirror, she had to thank Mor for her persistence. The dress looked  _really good_. It was a gauzy, floor-length, v-necked affair, both elegant and sexy. The inner shift was made of a blue fabric so dark it was almost black, and was slit nearly to the top of one thigh. The outer layer was black chiffon, randomly shot through with metallic threads of silver and gold. The v-neck plunged to the waistline, where a fabric band cinched it together and the chiffon skirt began. Thin straps drew over the shoulders and crossed over the back, but other than that Feyre’s back was bare.

Feyre’s hair had been curled, piled and pinned to the back of her head, with a few strands left to frame her face. Mor had used some kind of miracle gel to hold it all in place, and her gold-brown hair shone while remaining soft. Her lips had been painted in a glossy nude shade, with winged eyeliner and a blend of gold and silver eye shadow finishing off the look.

Never had Feyre felt more glamorous.

Mor appeared over her shoulder, rearranging a few folds in Feyre’s dress before humming satisfactorily. “There,” she said, turning Feyre to face the body length mirror.  “We just stepped off the cover of Vogue.”

Feyre had to agree. “Mor, you get all the credit, and could be the cover yourself.”

Mor’s dress was a deep wine red, and it was cut to hug her every curve on its way from her shoulders to her knees. Her blonde hair was left down, flowing freely down her back. Lips painted to match her dress and a smokey eye on her lids, More was gorgeous. If Mor hadn't done such a good job on Feyre’s own look, she'd have been jealous.

She was just slipping on a silver bracelet when there was a sharp knock at Mor’s door. “That should be Rhys!” chirped the blonde, slipping on her shoes before running out of the bedroom.

Feyre stared herself down in the mirror, taking a deep breath for courage. She could hear Rhys and Mor complimenting each other in front of the door, which did nothing to calm her.

_You can do this,_ she thought,  _you've only been asked to a gala you shouldn't be at by the head of Night court. No biggie._

She exited the room, begging her heeled feet not to betray her. The two months of ribbing, flirting and sexual tension between her and Rhys would  _not_  be ruined by Feyre stumbling.

Thankfully the gods smiled upon her. Stepping into the foyer of Mor’s suite with no incident, she was greeted by the very welcome site of Rhysand in a dark, tailored suit and bow tie. Mor must have let slip the design of Feyre's dress, for Rhys had somehow found a black bow tie with subtle gold and silver accents. His shirt stretched across his chest in an enticing manner, and Feyre had to resist the urge to touch his hair.

Rhysand smiled, slow and just for her. He looked her up and down in an appreciative manner, and Feyre was torn between blushing at the heat pooling in her or basking in his violet gaze. “Hello, Feyre darling. You look ravishing.”

Feyre smiled back. “You don't clean up too badly yourself, Rhys.”

Mor huffed in mock annoyance, rolling her eyes and making her way out. “Could you two please stop having eye sex in my rooms so we can go to the gala?”

* * *

The gala was beautiful. It was outdoors in a secluded corner of the grounds, under the boughs of a giant oak tree. Lanterns had been artfully strung in the branches, casting the scene in a warm glow. A wooden dance floor had been laid down, a small ensemble playing music in a corner. The faint smell of citronella wafted on the breeze, and the flames in the tea candles littered across the small, high tables guttered. Several of the house staff wove through the guests, holding trays laden with hors d'oeuvres or flutes of champagne. Snatches of conversation and laughter drifted to her ears, but all Feyre could focus on was Rhys’ hand splayed on the small of her back.

Cassian and Azriel were laughing between themselves near the trunk of the tree, and Mor began to make her way over. Feyre and Rhys followed, but were detained by someone wanting to gain favour with the head of Night.

Rhys brushed his thumb against her back in apology, and Feyre shivered. “Allow me to introduce my beautiful guest, Feyre.” Rhys smiled at her, and Feyre held out her hand for the other man to shake.

“It's good to meet you,” she said, and tried her hardest to listen to the small talk. Feyre nodded and smiled when required, but her eyes were drifting around the crowd. A moment later she spotted Lucien, a champagne flute dangling from his elegant fingers as he entertained a small crowd. His other hand gestured as he spoke, and a wave of laughter came from those gathered around him.

Feyre excused herself from the drab conversation, now turned to the rising price of oil, and walked across the grass. She could feel Rhys’ eyes burning into her back, asking why she'd abandoned him to so dull a death, and she turned and smiled cheekily. Rhys only cocked an eyebrow at her before subtly waving her off.  _Go have fun,_  said the wave.  _You’ll owe me later,_ said the brow.

Feyre could only guess what he'd want in payment for being abandoned, but she hoped it would involve significantly less clothing than she had on now.

* * *

Upon Feyre's approach, Lucien had also left his own little group. Lifting a glass flute off a passing tray, he met her in the middle and passed her the champagne.

“I don't know who picked this champagne,” he said, downing the remainder of his own glass in one fluid motion, “but it is absolutely divine.”

Feyre smiled. “Rhys chose it,” she said, which was true, and she was hoping to incite a reaction.

Lucien looked almost lost for a moment before hastily depositing his empty flute on a passing tray. He straightened his already-straight tie, tipping his nose in the air. “Drinking in moderation at these things is always smart,” he said, ignoring Feyre's snickering. “And the champagne was acceptable at best.”

“Gods, you two drama queens need to get over yourselves,” said Feyre, still laughing. “You should see Rhys when I say anything good about you around him.”

“He's just jealous of my stunning good looks and award-winning personality.”

“You wish. Anyways, I was hoping to find Rose with you. Do you know where she is?”

The redhead laid a hand over his heart, his brows furrowing. “Feyre, you wound me. No “It's good to see you, Lucien,” or “you look stunning, Lucien,” before asking for favours? I taught you better than that.”

Feyre rolled her eyes at him. “You look great, and it's good to see you.” Though the tone was sarcastic, the words themselves were true. Lucien was wearing a navy suit, tailored to fit his tall and wiry frame. A narrow black tie was knotted around his neck, and his hair was partially pulled back. He looked good in the warm light of the lanterns, with that sly smile on his face.

And it  _had_  been a while since the two friends had properly caught up. Ever since Feyre had been snapped up by the Night court to finish her training, she'd hardly seen Lucien or Rose. She didn't venture often into the medical bay, and she tried to avoid the Spring court whenever possible. Tamlin still pissed her off.

“And you look… presentable, for once. I almost didn't recognize you coming down the lawn.” Ah, and  _that’s_  why she hadn't lost any sleep over not seeing him.

“You're still an ass.”

Lucien chuckled before checking the time on his phone. “Rose is still working for a couple more hours. It's a shame tonight fell in her schedule.” Just as he went to slip his phone into his pocket, it buzzed. He looked to Feyre, and she flicked a hand at him.

“Oh, go ahead,” she said, taking a sip of champagne.

Looking at the screen, he smiled. “Speak of the devil and she shall appear.”

“It's Rose?” At Lucien’s nod of agreement, she bent over his phone. The glare and tiny text made it difficult to read, and after squinting for a few seconds Feyre just asked. “What's she saying?”

Lucien smirked, something heated sliding through his gaze. “It's a reminder to stay in my suit after the gala, and that she found the handcuffs.”

Feyre choked on her champagne. “Oh gods,” she said, “I did not need to know that.” A second look at the bronze smirk still present and she continued, “Rose may be small, but she's full of energy. Are you sure you can keep up?”

Lucien did not deign to reply, instead flipping her off before stalking away.

Feyre laughed at his retreating form. She would go soothe his ego later. For now, she would gloat. Rhys would find the whole thing hilarious.

Feyre-1, Lucien-0

* * *

“So,” said Mor, “on a bad night, this just ends with everyone returning to their rooms a little tipsy. You've got nothing to worry about Feyre, there's no rules list to follow here.”

“And what happens on a good night?” Cassian choked on his drink, and Azriel started grinning. Mor smirked.

With a pointed look at Cassian, Mor casually said, “There was this one year where Cass snuck in vodka, got drunk off his ass and started an orgy in his rooms.”

Feyre gaped at the tall man, making Cass self-consciously run a hand through his hair. “It a very satisfying experience.” Azriel raised an eyebrow at him.

“That's not what you said while cleaning up the next morning.”

“Hey! I'll remind you that you and Mor were both heavily involved.”

Feyre snickered. “Well, they didn't start it.” Everyone was laughing, Cassian trying to regain his dignity, when a sudden, strange hush rippled out from the centre of the gala.

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” breathed Cassian, and he herded them closer to the scene.

There on the edge of the dance floor stood Lucien, hackles raised and baring his teeth at an older, paler and shorter version of himself.

“Hello, Lucien,” said the man. “Where's your new whore, little brother? I thought I'd say hello.” Feyre winced internally. Every word from Lucien’s brother was frigid, with the words ‘little brother’ spat like a curse.

Lucien stepped closer, drawing himself to his full height before snarling, “If you speak of her like that again, or touch a single hair on her head- Eris, so help me god  _I will_   _slit your fucking throat.”_ In that moment, with his hands fisted and fire in his eyes, Feyre fully believed he would.

Eris laughed, a cruel sound with no humour. “Just like you did our brother? Are you also going to carve out my mark and then burn my body, leaving just that scrap of flesh untouched for everyone to find?” Eris leaned in close. “I never took you for a violent one, boy. Then you used our trademark on my brother… Showing your true colours, hm?” The older man planted a hand on Lucien’s chest and shoved, forcing the emissary to take a few steps back. “You may have renounced your title and you may have run, but that doesn’t erase your roots. You can never ‘stop’ being mafia. It's a stain on your soul.”

Feyre winced. That was a low blow, reminding Lucien of everything he had done to escape the inescapable shadow that would have consumed him. The Vanserra Mafia was the most feared crime syndicate on this side of Prythian. They had their fingers in drug dealing, arms dealing, money laundering, and almost every vice in the country. All of their family had a stylized ‘V’ tattooed in black just to the left of their hearts, meant to be worn as a badge of honour and a reminder of loyalty. Beron Vanserra was their Don, and it was said that Eris had inherited every drop of cruelty that his father possessed.

Lucien’s hand was inching towards the pocket he kept a knife in, and Feyre stepped forward. She firmly grabbed him around the wrist, squeezing tightly to get his attention. “Don’t let him get to you, Lucien.” She glared at Eris, her grey-blue eyes meeting his cold amber ones. “You’re better than him.”

Eris smiled, but the expression only curdled something in Feyre’s gut. “Oh, how quaint. Is this the youngest trainee of the Night court? We’ve heard of you, all the way back home.”

“Leave her out of this, you slime-tongued little-”

Suddenly, a dark figure seemed to materialize beside Feyre, briefly resting a dark hand on her shoulder before setting it on the back of Lucien’s neck.  _Rhys._  His aura was dark and threatening, and Feyre drew on it to feed her courage. The Vanserras were not people you messed with and lived to tell the tale.

“Though I might change the wording, I must agree with Lucien. If you have grievances with members of the Night court, you can take them up with me.” Rhys spoke with absolute authority, his tone cool but commanding. “Why are you here, Eris Vanserra?”

Eris held up his hands and dipped his head, his arrogance shining through the show of submission. “As absurd as this may sound, I’m here to strike a bargain.”

The crowd murmured. Vanserras never bargained, it was always do-or-die. Lucien actually burst into laughter. Simultaneously, Feyre dug her nails into his wrist and Rhys tightened his grip on Lucien's neck. The redhead grit his teeth but swallowed the laugh.

“And what bargain may that be?” asked Rhys, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“I give you the information, you clean up the mess. Sounds good, no?” Eris smiled tightly.

A beat passed before Rhys said, “Deal.”

"What the hell, Rhys-" Lucien whispered harshly, but Feyre clenched her fingers tighter. She was sure she'd leave bruises.

“Good. We seal it in blood.” Without further flare or fancy, Eris drew a switch blade and made a shallow cut along his palm.

Silently, Lucien shook off Feyre’s wrist and handed his own throwing knife to Rhys, hilt first. If Rhys was going to be rash, Lucien thought he might as well throw his full support into the mix. The head of Night repeated the cut, and the two men firmly clasped hands.

“Feyre, you have to witness this,” said Lucien. “Repeat after me.”

The words came strongly and steadily out of her mouth, and she took the time to look both Rhys and Eris in the eyes. Repeating Lucien's softly spoken phrases, she said, “Eris Vanserra and Rhysand of the Night court, while under this oath you are honour bound to this agreement. You are each protected from the other until this oath is fulfilled. I do so witness this.”

Eris withdrew his hand immediately after the words were said, wiping the blood on a golden handkerchief. Rhys just let his hand drop.

“Now that we both likely have an infection,” he said, “what's the news?”

“Beron is working with Amarantha.”  Feyre quickly masked her alarm. The infamous Vanserra mafia allied with the biggest threat in the country?  _Not good._  Lucien muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘you're snitching’.

Rhys merely blinked. “Why the warning? Surely you'd rather watch us all burn than tell us out of the goodness of your heart.” He absently shook his hand, a drop of blood splattering onto the wooden dance floor below.

Eris’ lips thinned. “Amarantha is trafficking people, which we all took a blood oath against. By allying himself with her, Beron is breaking that oath. I am merely balancing the scales and restoring our honour.”

Rhys hummed in thought. “The more information you give us, the easier we can do what you asked.” Rhys smiled lazily, the nonchalance in the action a blatant show of power. “Think of that as my bargain for you.”

Eris nodded once in assent. “Before I go, I have one more score to settle. This is more official business.”

Eris stared at Lucien, eyes narrowed. “I have a warning for you, little brother. It should be delivered by leaving your dead body in your whore’s bed, but alas,” Eris arrogantly waved his hand around, “We have company.”

The older Vanserra drew his knife again, his blood still coating the blade. Eris put the point against Lucien's collarbone, and Feyre tensed. She felt Rhys’ presence step closer, ready to intervene should the situation spin out of control.  

Eris didn't draw blood, merely slicing down his shirt.

“You little shit, that was nice shirt,” said Lucien, the clenching of his jaw the only visible sign of his fear. Feyre was impressed at how composed he was; Eris had a reputation for cruelty. Give the man a knife and add their family history, and Feyre was surprised Lucien could still taunt him. But then again, it was  _Lucien_.

Eris merely smiled at him, not bothering to make a clean cut through the expensive fabric.

Still holding the knife, Eric opened Lucien's shirt, exposing his lean chest. There, an inch left of his heart, was the defining Vanserra tattoo. It was slightly different from the one Feyre had studied and learned to recognize. All the usual blank space in the motif of Lucien’s tattoo was coloured a stark blue.

Eris hummed, tapping the blade against the inked skin. “The added colour is a little sloppy, but we did have to hold you down to do this.”

“Eris, your favour is running out,” warned Rhys. Eris didn't seem to hear.

“Remember, little brother.” He placed his hand on Lucien’s chest, palm directly over the tattoo. The older redhead leaned in, saying, “You may be a Vanserra, but you're  _marked._ ”

Lucien’s bronze skin paled but he held his ground, baring his teeth in a feral grin. “I know. After you murdered  _her_ , I’m glad of it.”

Turning to Rhys, Eris pocketing his knife. From the same pocket, he pulled out a necklace. Dangling from the leather cord was a metal ‘V’, enameled blue. Eris handed it to Rhys. “For harbouring a marked traitor.”

Rhys looked at it dispassionately before shoving the necklace into his suit pocket. “Pretty trinket, but I’m not into mobsters. Thank you for the flattery, though.” Rhys stepped forward, moving in front of Feyre’s line of site. “Now get out of my party.”

Eris started to turn away, but seemed to pause for a moment. “Feyre,” he said, and she didn’t like the way her name sounded from his lips. “Be careful who you keep close. I’d hate to see you in blue.”

And with that, Eris left.

* * *

 Those attending the gala began talking again, and it was like Feyre had stepped out of a bubble. Everything that had happened felt so isolated, and now, suddenly there existed other people.

Feyre felt a long-fingered hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Lucien. Her eyes were immediately drawn to his chest, where the tattoo was bare and bold against his skin. It was strangely beautiful, all curving lines and twisting patterns filled in blue. Lucien awkwardly fisted his shirt closed and held it in place. “Feyre… you didn’t have to put yourself in danger for me. That was very brave of you, confronting Eris like that, but I don’t want you getting hurt. If you had been hurt, I’m pretty sure Rhys would have taken my balls for collateral.” The attempt at humour fell flat when Feyre merely glared at her friend.

The beginnings of annoyance bubbled in her throat.  _How are men so thick-headed,_  she thought. "Don't tell me what to do." 

Lucien, in a fashion very unlike himself, fumbled with his words. “Shit. Gods, I'm sorry. What I meant to say was… Feyre, thank you. I would have done something stupid--”

“As usual,” coughed Rhys, winking at Feyre.

“--but you stepped in.”  Lucien affectionately squeezed her shoulder, then turned to Rhys. He stuck out hand, and after a moment Rhys smoothly gripped it. He arched a brow.

“Finally coming round to me, foxboy?” Rhys' other hand crept into his pocket, where the necklace seemed to be burning a hole through the fabric. The charm was cold and felt too heavy for its size. Rhys scraped the edge of his nail along the enamel and the metal's sharp edge bite into his finger. 

“Hell no,” said Lucien. His eyes, russet and gold, stared at the head of Night unblinkingly. “We’re both dead men walking, and we’ll probably be sharing a grave. Thought I should at least shake your hand once before our corpses spend eternity together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Az and Cass are so difficult to write, but they'll be popping up more often. I've got a chapter in the works where the inner circle features more; not sure where it falls in posting order though. I've always thought Lucien would be on the kinky side, so I couldn't resist! In regards to Vanserras and their deal with blue, its basically a mark as to who's on their hit list. Constructive criticism is welcomed, and please please request something you want as part of this AU! I'll write pretty much anything ;)
> 
> Enjoy your day!


	3. A Tooth For A Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien makes one of his biggest mistakes and pays dearly for it. But who can blame him? She was being a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with more! This one's a little different, as it happened a few years before Feyre. Remember, unless mentioned (or incredibly obvious) there's no real order to any of these one-shots! I also shook up the writing style a bit, so we'll see how that goes. Oh, and Tamlin's an ass from the start.
> 
> Trigger warning: some gore and past abuse
> 
> Enjoy the show!

A litany of curses were running through Lucien’s mind, most of them starting with _f*cking hell_ or _that bitch_ and all of which he couldn't say out loud.

None of the training he'd received in Spring could have prepared him for this. There was nothing in his accelerated courses that hinted at what one was to do when one was completely at the mercy of the most wanted woman in Prythian and completely in over their head.

His jacket, gun, knife, earpiece and panic button had all been stripped from him when he'd stepped into the foyer of her mansion. Amarantha had promised a negotiation with the government, and Lucien had been sent. Alone, and without backup. Now he was in her colossal basement surrounded by her mercenaries, standing at her feet while she lounged on what only could be described as a throne. The fruitless negotiating aspect of the meeting had long been over (like hell its ever _been_ a negotiation; she'd only asked him here to gloat and send a message), and he felt as if this was instead his trial.

It was at times like this when he questioned Tamlin’s judgement. Sure, Lucien had the talent of being able to talk circles around everyone he meets, but he was brand new and fresh from training, so very _green_ . Even _he_ wouldn’t have picked himself for this meeting. But Lucien was eager to please, to earn his place, and Tamlin was his friend and superior, so he really didn’t have a choice.

“You know,” said Amarantha, idly picking non-existent dirt from under her blood red nails. “You were cute at first, with your nice clothes and pretty formalities and _enticing_ propositions.”

Lucien arched a red brow. “And that's changed, I'm assuming.”

“Hmm. I've learned that no one can give me what I want. If I want something, I have to take it for myself.”

“Well, that mentality is going to get you absolutely everywhere.” Amarantha’s smile stiffened, and Lucien cursed his sarcastic tongue. He winced internally. What a brilliant emissary he was.

“Being a Vanserra, you would know.” Lucien blinked and tried to keep the shock off his face He'd never introduced himself other than as an emissary, and Amarantha hadn't asked. “Oh, don't act so surprised. I may be relatively new to this scene, but I would know that hair anywhere. Now, you're very young… you wouldn't happen to be Lucien, would you? I've heard lots about you. The despised runt of the family, near useless in business but a hellion in bed. Is that why they call you silvertongue, or is it because you talk too much?”

At first Lucien didn't respond, staring stubbornly at a spot somewhere between her eyes and her forehead. The words hurt, badly. Like knives driven straight through his thick skin and into his tender heart. It's nothing he hadn't heard before, and that made it all the more painful. Back home with the mafia, his usefulness was limited to scouting out a room’s occupants and being his family’s punching bag.

What a glorious purpose.

Lucien was never particularly bulky, like his other muscle-bound brothers. He'd never had a cruel streak as wide as the Pacific, like Eris. He'd never had his father's favour, and though he knew his mother loved him she never did a thing to stop him rolling into bed bloodied and bruised. Whatever time wasn't spent scouting a room’s occupants to please his father; getting beat to please his brothers; getting dragged on business so they could tell him how weak he was when he vomited as they murdered (he always tried to pick up the pieces afterwards but the victims thought he was one of _them_ ); what time wasn't spent reading or writing or learning languages and guitar was spent late at night in the arms of lovers, trying to erase himself in their skin and sounds.

Then Lucien had met _her_ , and he'd never known joy so rapturous nor ruin so complete.

And here, after all he'd been through, Amarantha thought he'd be felled by a few well-aimed words.

Resolve mixed with the hurt and fear coursing through his veins, and Lucien’s tongue loosened. “You'll have to do better than that, bitch.” _Ah_ , the cathartic qualities of foul language were truly marvelous.

Amarantha’s porcelain features hardened. “ _Enough_ , you insolent child. Kneel.”

Lucien stood tall, defiantly lifting his chin to look her in the eye. “No,” he said, his voice loud and firm, every bit the confidant emissary he did not feel like. Never again would he scrape and bow for people who would only spit at him. That life was one Lucien had just left.

Amarantha arched an auburn brow. “So that’s the game you want to play? Alright.” One of her ring-clad fingers tapped on her throne. “I said, _kneel_.”

Lucien had barely registered the sound of footsteps behind him before there was a blow to the back of his head. Stars erupted in his vision, and he staggered forward. Someone kicked him hard in the back of the knees, and when Lucien blinked away the darkness in his eyes he found himself on all fours, his nose inches from the wooden floor.

Amarantha smirked. “That’s better. I win.”

Lucien clenched his jaw. He could feel something wet and warm running down the nape of his neck, and didn’t need to check to know that it was blood. His head was beginning to throb, and his palms stung from where they had contacted the floor. He straightened as much as kneeling would allow. “What do you want?” he ground out.

Amarantha rolled her eyes in annoyance. “I already told you: Tamlin.” She stroked her chin, putting on a show of thought. “Though I suppose we could compromise with Rhysand…”

“You’re not getting within a mile of either of them, you can be sure of that. Our bitch-radar was just upgraded.”

The woman laughed, throwing back her head and exposing her pale throat, auburn hair sliding over her shoulders.

“That won't be a problem. I'll make the request public within the agency, and every time I am denied I will take a loved one from the one who dared say ‘no’. I'll make them wish they had never been born. What do you say, Lucien?”

The red headed man had blanched, his bronzed skin going several shades paler. His hands were shaking, though more from anger than fear. _You sick f*ck_ , he thought.

“Why don't you go back to the shit-hole you crawled out of.”

Amarantha’s smile slid off her face like oil, and she coldly crooked two fingers in a ‘come here’ motion. Before he even had a chance to react, Lucien was dragged forwards by his collar and deposited at the foot of her throne. The mercenary hovered behind him; he could feel their body heat.

Amarantha leaned over him, and it took everything within Lucien not to cringe away. “That was not a smart move. I can't let your insult go unpunished within my own home.” She grabbed his chin with one hand, her long nails digging into his skin. Lucien only blinked at the pain; this was nothing compared to what he was used to. Amarantha bared her teeth. “You took what I wanted away from me.” Lucien was going to snipe that technically he couldn't take away something she never had in the first place, but then the _bitch_ suddenly had a knife. A sweet smile curled her lips. “An eye for an eye, no?”

He hardly had time to blink before a searing pain burned the left side of his face. A scream tried to claw its way up his throat, but his mouth had suddenly dried.  The sound shrivelled until all that emerged was a high-pitched keen.

Oh, _gods the pain- make it stop. Make it stop, please makeitstopstopstop-_

His left eye ( _oh gods my left eye)_ still felt the pain of a thousand burning suns, but the fog over his brain had cleared enough that he resumed receiving sensory input. Though a chunk of his vision had disappeared ( _oh gods_ ), Lucien could clearly see Amarantha examining something speared on the end of her knife, and bile burned his tongue.

She was turning the handle of the knife, inspecting his eye. The back of it was covered with scraps of tissue and the stub of what he guessed was the optical nerve. All he could think of beyond the pain was that his eye was a lot bigger out of his head than it looked while it was in.

“Such a pretty colour,” cooed Amarantha as she morbidly ran a finger over the eye. “It's such a nice colour- shame you only have one left.” She popped it off her knife and Lucien groaned, though he wasn't sure if it was from the pain or the squelching of his eye sliding off the blade.

Amarantha idly scraped the knife on the armrest of her throne, surveying the mess that was Lucien Vanserra. The man was hunched over on his knees, and his red hair was starting to escape from the tie it'd been bound in. Though his hands were pressed against the floor, she could still see their minute shaking. A look of agony was pasted on his face, still visible through all the blood. But despite being glazed and in pain, a fire was still in his remaining russet eye.

The woman shook her head, clucking her tongue. “A pity you have a nice face, even missing an eye. Now I have to ruin it more.”

Amarantha fisted one hand in Lucien's hair to hold his head still. Her knife sliced through his skin like it was butter, parting the flesh from above his eyebrow to his jaw. Blood poured anew, though with the volume coming from his eye it really made no difference.

As another line of fire traced down his face, he could feel tears leaking from his eyes ( _eye_ , he mentally corrected. Dammit.) and another wretched moan was pulled from his chest. Amarantha merely frowned.

“You should be writhing on the floor begging for my mercy. Why are you not writhing on the floor begging for my mercy?”

From somewhere previously undiscovered, Lucien pulled a broken laugh. It sounded more like choking, but in this situation he would take what he could get. The laugh ended with him doubled over gasping for breath, having discovered that the facial muscles involved in moving the left side of his lips had been torn and hurt _tremendously_ when moved. But he had things to say, and hurt would not stop him. “I lived with six brothers and a father who beat me daily and attempted my murder bi-weekly. You…” Here he had to pause, sucking in air to moderate the consuming pain. “You are nothing more than a poor imitation.”

Without further prompting, a hand clamped down in his shoulder and sent him sprawling to the floor. His head connected painfully with the hardwood, and Lucien's vision blurred again.

“Thank you, Ms. Attor,” said a fuzzy-looking Amarantha. “Now, I want you to _break him_.”

A colourless, bony-faced woman leered over Lucien, and Ms. Attor nudged the edge of her steel toed boot against his empty eye socket.

This time Lucien did scream, and Amarantha smiled. The curling of her lips made something inside him twist ( _Real men don't cry, said Eris; Shameful, said his father)_ , so he clamped his jaw shut. When Ms. Attor began kicking his stomach and breaking his ribs, Lucien retreated deep in his mind to evenings spent alone playing guitar or learning Gaelic or wrapped in _her_ love.

A particularly harsh blow to his clavicle elicited a whine, and he curled in further around himself. Once, when he had been very little, one of his brothers (he couldn't be bothered to remember which one; they all liked to hurt him so it didn't matter) had broken his arm. Lucien had shrieked like a banshee until his brother had leaned down and whispered: “Only little girls scream. If you scream again I’ll take your balls ‘cause you don't deserve them.” He can't remember screaming from physical hurt since then, until now. ( _Shame curled in his throat. Only little girls scream.)_

Eventually there came no fresh bursts of pain. Lucien gingerly cracked open his remaining eye and tried not to breathe deeply. ( _Pain is weakness, said his family. Put it away.)_ Ms. Attor’s steel toed boots were streaked with red, and Amarantha lounged on her throne like a cat. His eye sat in a place of honour on the armrest.

She _tsk_ ed at him. “You got blood on my hardwood floor. If that seeps in the cracks I may have to bill you.”

Lucien was hurt and so very, very tired. He just wanted to curl up under a warm blanket and sleep for a few thousand years. The diplomatic mission ( _’diplomatic’ my ass_ ) had gone to shit the moment Amarantha had started making her demands, and after taking his eye Lucien really didn't feel like playing nice. Besides, his gift of eloquence was reserved for those he respected.

“Fuck you,” he said.

Ms. Attor’s boot met his head, and the world went a blissful, beautiful black.

* * *

 

When Lucien woke up, he surprisingly didn't mind. The world was dark, soft and quiet, and he was cushioned on a cloud of haze. A steady beeping sound pierced through the fog of his brain, and he tried to raise a hand to brush the irritant away.

“Try not to move too quickly,” said a calm female voice. “There's still some sedative in your bloodstream, so everything is going to feel sluggish.”  

Lucien opened his eyes ( _eye,_ sniped his mind. _Gods, I only have a single_ eye.) and squinted against the bright light. A dull, distant pain thrummed through his body, and he couldn't lift his head.

A shadow passed over his face and he was able to open his eye a little more. A young woman in green scrubs and a white coat was fiddling with the various medical apparatus beside him, blocking the light. “My name is Dr. Rosalind,” said the woman, flashing him a wide, gentle smile. “I’m your surgeon and will be helping you through the recovery process.”

Lucien cleared his throat, trying to clear the cobwebs that seemed to have gathered in it. Dr. Rosalind raised his bed to a sitting position and held a cup of water before him, bumping the plastic straw so it was positioned in front of his mouth. He tried to take the cup from her, but his elbow barely lifted off the mattress before excruciating pain shot through his side.

He hissed, and allowed the surgeon to hold his water while he drank. Damn his pride in wanting to be independent. Lucien was thankful her only reaction was a raised eyebrow.

He wanted to drink more, but she pulled the cup away. His fingers twitched ( _thank Gods they weren't broken_ ) and she smiled a little. “You can have more later,” promised Dr. Rosalind. “You haven't eaten since you came in two days ago, and your stomach can only take so much.”

His eye widened. Two days is a long time to be unconscious after a relatively routine beating. But then again, Amarantha _did_ carve out his left eye.

“How bad is it?” asked Lucien, and the surgeon started listing his various injuries.

“Laceration to the left side of your face, blunt force trauma to your left temple and the occipital bone, a grade 2 concussion, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, internal bleeding in the abdominal cavity, severe bruising in various areas and a severed eye.” A quick flip through the clipboard attached to his bed, and Dr. Rosalind nodded. “That’s all. I specialize in trauma and emergency medicine, so you can ask me for information regarding any of your injuries except for your eye. Your ophthalmologist will be down in a few hours to answer those questions.”

She replaced the clipboard and turned to leave, but Lucien called out to her. “Dr. Rosalind…” Here he paused, shifting minutely. “Has anyone visited while I was unconscious?”

The surgeon hovered in the doorway. “Tamlin from the Spring court stopped by after your surgery.” She didn't mention for how long, and Lucien winced. He tried to turn his head away, but the thick bandages on the left side prevented the action.

What had he been expecting? A vase of flowers, a teddy bear, and a get-well-soon card? No, Tamlin taking the time from his busy schedule to stop by was enough. That was more than most did for him.

Dr. Rosalind hesitated, eyeing him and gnawing on her lip. He must look pitiful, thought Lucien, with half his head wrapped in bandages, all the IVs arranged around the bed, and his thin form covered by the starchy hospital sheets.

But Lucien was _very_ good at reading micro-expressions, and the set of her face revealed no pity, only sympathy.

The surgeon adjusted her stethoscope. “You were my last stop on my shift. I'm going to go freshen up, but I'll come back if you’d like. I need some company tonight, and you seem decent enough.”

Lucien was shocked. If his face weren't wrapped in bandages, his jaw would be hanging open. He gave her a quick, nearly imperceptible once-over. Dr. Rosalind was pretty, he'd hand her that. He didn't know much about her personality, but Lucien thought someone like that didn't often go wanting for attention or people to occupy their evenings.

Her lame excuse was bullshit, so that left her offer as an act of kindness. From experience Lucien knew kindness was hard to come by, and he would not bite the hand that would feed him.

“Alright,” he said, and berated himself for letting some of the disbelief and vulnerability through his voice. But the surgeon just beamed at him then swept from the room. Her billowing white coat made her seem taller than she was, though from what he could see in the hallway the interns dodging her quick strides were indication enough of her place in the food chain.

Though high-ranked she may be, _dammit_ she'd left the cup of water just out of reach.

* * *

 

By the time Dr. Rosalind returned, a nurse had come and gone with the best soup Lucien had ever tasted. Tamlin hadn't stopped by yet, but a quick glance at the clock showed that he'd be eating dinner. A tiny part of him felt stung by his best friend’s absence, but Lucien quickly squashed it. Tamlin had offered him refuge here, and then a job; letting a man finish his food was the least he could do.

Soft, quick footfalls pulled him from his thoughts, and Lucien watched the surgeon walk into his room. She had abandoned the scrubs and was dressed in skinny jeans, with a baggy cable knit sweater pulled over a tank top. In her arms were a blanket, thermos, and a beat-up paperback.

“Glad to see you're still awake.” Lucien barely had time to make a noise in affirmation before Dr. Rosalind barrelled on. Arranging the thermos and paperback on his small table, she approached him with the blanket. “The hospital blankets are trash,” she said, and peeled off the top layer from his bed. Lucien blushed a little as she spread and tucked in the new blanket.

The surgeon seemed to note his embarrassment only after she'd tossed the old covering into a hamper. “Sorry, I should have asked before I did that.” Her own cheeks flushed. “My brain tends to move faster than it can check itself, and I end up doing and saying things that should be filtered. I also talk too fast, and apparently it all just snowballs and compounds. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, please don't hesitate to let me know-”

“It's fine,” interrupted Lucien. She _did_ speak quickly, and his concussed mind couldn't handle both the volume of words and their meaning simultaneously. She wrung her small hands together before perching on the edge of the chair, sipping from her thermos. “Dr. Rosalind, are you nervous?”

A telling pause, followed by a firm: “Of course not.” Lucien just gave a little knowing smirk, which the surgeon tactifully ignored. “And we're not in a professional setting, so you can call me Rose.”

Rose grabbed the book off the table and flipped to its first page. “I hope you like reading fantasy,” she said.

Lucien hummed. “I prefer political satires myself,” he said, testing the waters with some gentle teasing.

Rose barely glanced up. “Well that sucks, because I'm your surgeon, not your servant. If your legs are working, you're welcome to exchange the Lord of the Rings for something more boring.” A small smile tugged at her lips, and Lucien internally breathed a sigh of relief. He hated walking on eggshells with his words, and trading barbs meant he didn't need to filter.

“Touché,” he said, and let himself get lost in Tolkien.

* * *

 

Rose’s reading voice was different from her speaking one; it was softer and more melodious, carrying subtle inflections in its phrasing. Lucien had almost been lulled to sleep by it when her reading suddenly stopped in the middle of a sentence. He made to open his eye, but but hesitated when he heard the shuffling of a stiff dress shirt.

“Tamlin.” He winced almost imperceptibly at the frostiness of Rose’s tone. “Finally decided to drop by?”

Lucien heard Tam shift on the balls of his feet, searching for the right words. “I was busy.”

“Too busy to check on the friend you'd sent on a suicide mission? Never in the history of this organization has an emissary sustained such severe injuries, yet when you popped by, you saw he was unconscious and just left. You didn't even bother to _ask_.” Lucien heard Tamlin open his mouth to say something, and Rose all but jumped down his throat. “No, you don't get to defend yourself. When he woke up, he wanted to know if you'd visited. I read his file, and Lucien needs all the support he can get. Gods know the kind of mental trauma he's just been through, not to mention everything else that's happened in his life. If you're his so-called ‘best friend’, I better see your ass in here proving it. Do you understand?”

A pause, and Lucien could just imagine Tamlin filling with self-righteous fury. “You can't speak to me like that. I'm the head of Spring and he's my employee-”

“I'm his doctor and he's my patient. Visiting hours begin at 10 am tomorrow morning. You can see yourself out now.”

Tamlin growled, and Lucien could feel the sound in his bones. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

Rose sighed. “Please, I'm trying to read to my friend. Don't wake him up.” The passion and fire in her tone had mellowed, and now she just sounded weary.

There was a deeper sigh, and Lucien felt Tamlin's calloused hand brush surprisingly gently against his bandaged shoulder. Then the head of Spring was gone.

Lucien’s mind reeled. Rose had literally torn Tamlin a new one, and lived to tell the tale. She'd defended him, someone she barely knew. Surprisingly, Tamlin had listened… more or less. The verbal whipping had been painful enough that Lucien had been tempted to drop his dozing act to defend his friend, but a part of him felt slighted by Tamlin and relished in hearing him brought down. He smirked internally. _She may be small, but she is mighty._

Rose had called him _friend_.

And with the soothing cadences of the Lord of the Rings drifting in the air, Lucien smiled a small smile and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing that one was like pulling teeth, hence the awkward (nonexistent) flow of the first chunk. Ugh. I've read lots of other Lucien stuff on AO3, and the consensus when mentioning his childhood seemed like he was abused physically. So, I jumped on the bandwagon. He's very damaged, and I tried to show that in the way he thinks of others and their treatment of him. Poor foxboy.
> 
> If Rose's personality is giving you whiplash, then I'm doing something right. I haven't had the chance to explore her much on the page for fear of backlash, but her personality is one of those which is very strong and in-your-face, but also soft and meek. It's kinda like a pendulum, depending on the situation. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos, those always make my day! Please, please, please, request a chapter or give me a prompt! I'll write pretty much anything under the sun. Have a nice day!


	4. Good Riddance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing like small-group bonding in the middle of nowhere to convince people to get along. Nature, stars, and fire-cooked food all combine to work their magic. 
> 
> Let's hope it works on Rhys and Lucien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is so fluffy and sweet your teeth will probably fall out. I've been sitting on this chapter for a while and am still not quite happy with it, but the next chapter is going to be SUPER angsty so I thought this would be a good break. Please let me know if anyone is OOC (Rhys is hard to writeeeeee), and enjoy the show!

When Rose strolled into the Night court cafeteria, all conversion sputtered then died. The young surgeon didn't seem to notice, but her back straightened as she continued to walk.

She sat down at a table beside Feyre and across from Rhysand, raising an eyebrow at them. Feyre had a forkful of rice frozen half way to her mouth, and Rhys looked as if someone had told him grass was blue.

Rose looked around. “Am I not supposed to be here?” she asked them, not sounding the least bit concerned.

Feyre put down her fork. “No, you can be here. We're just… a bit surprised.” She nudged Rhys under the table with her foot.

“We don't usually get visitors. People tend to avoid us if possible,” said Rhys. “Which I don't understand, considering our decor is much more tasteful.”

Rose had to agree. Most of the other courts looked as if they were copy-pasted from the 16th century, and though they were nice, the Night court’s more modern take on things was refreshing.

All flat surfaces were stainless steel, and a hanging light with a blue glass shade hung over every table. The tiles were dark and shiny, and if Rose squinted she could see little flecks in that resembled stars. Pot lights lit the serving area, which was sunk into the back wall. It _was_ beautifully decorated.

Slowly, the other members of the Night court went back to their food and conversation.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Rhys, gesturing grandly at the cafeteria. Feyre rolled her eyes and muttered ‘drama queen’ into her food. Rhys pretended not to hear her. “And what can we do for you, Rose?”

“Where's Lucien?” asked Feyre out of curiosity. Rose was wearing casual clothing, and the two were rarely seen separate when they had coinciding time off from their demanding schedules.

“He's finishing some stupid task for Tamlin. The beast has been acting like a slave driver.” A look of intense displeasure crossed Rose’s pretty face before her usual bright smile took its place. “But that's alright for the moment, because it means he’s not here.” She barely took a breath before she ploughed on, leaning in the the table. Rhys and Feyre glanced at each other; something was up. Rose was practically vibrating with excitement, and her smile threatened to split her face.

“Do you guys want to go camping?”

* * *

 

Feyre browsed the shelves of the grocery market, occasionally tossing something into the cart Lucien pushed behind her.

“So,” said Feyre, comparing two boxes of pasta. “Remind me how Rose got you to agree to this again?”

Lucien huffed, blowing an errant lock of hair from his face. “She was an only child and nothing can stand between her and her goal.” The redhead tied his hair into a careless bun. “It also helps that she knows exactly how to push my buttons.”

Feyre smirked. “So the fox was outwitted by the hare.”

“ _Hare_ my ass. Have you met Rose? Right now she's the cat who got the cream.”

“Yeah, Rhys is pretty excited that you asked to use his truck. He thinks that you owe him some great debt now.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “The most he's getting from me is this,” he said, and flipped the bird.

Feyre gave him an unimpressed look. “You're going to be stuck with him for a few days while camping. You could at least make an effort to like him.”

“I _am_ trying.” He picked something off a shelf and inspected the label. “Does Rhys like spice?”

“Most kinds,” said Feyre, not bothering to hide her amusement.

Lucien tossed the small tin into their cart. “There. I was nice to Rhys.” The pair continued through the store, checking the shelves for some specific items Rose had asked them to pick up.

“I've never been camping before,” said Feyre. At Lucien’s inquisitive look, she continued. “Well, I went once when I was very young, but I don't remember it. When I was older, money was used for more important things.”

Lucien nodded. There was a beat of silence before he said, “Rose and I had never been camping either. Her parents were too busy raising her to be some ‘prodigy’ to teach her to enjoy life, and our family… _business_ was abundant.” He looked at her intently while he spoke, as if gauging her reaction to his words. “Tamlin took us for the first time a few years ago, claiming some carpool discount. We camped every year in the backwoods. The learning curve was… steep.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. “Is that where we're going? The backwoods?”

Lucien laughed. “No. Rhys would probably die if he were separated from his hair gels. We’re starting you off easy; a campground in a national park, showers and washrooms provided.”

“And do you like it, camping?”

“Well, I'm going this year without Tam, so I think that says something.” He shrugged a shoulder, then grabbed a bag of giant marshmallows. “I enjoy it, but Rose was the one who fell in love. She really wanted to go, and we'd been talking about a fall trip for a while. But I will say that there's something about being in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by nature and the people you love. All the tension of life just sort of… drains away. No masks are needed, no reputations to keep; you can just be yourself. ”

Feyre was quiet for a moment. “Thank you for inviting Rhys and I to your retreat.”

Lucien put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Sometimes we all need to leave our troubles behind, if just for a little while.”

* * *

 

“When can I drive?”

“For the last time, Lucien, _you are not driving."_

“You'll be singing a different tune when you turn us into a ditch next.”

Feyre sighed from the backseat and pinched the bridge of her nose. Two more hours of Rhys and Lucien acting like three-year-olds would kill her.

The drive through the country had been fun, for the first little while. The changing colours of the trees were stunning, and Feyre's fingers itched for paint to capture their rich reds, oranges and browns.

Then the bickering had begun. Rhys was driving, and initially no one questioned him as it _was_ his truck. Rose was their most competent navigator (and one of two people who knew where the campsite was) but she was backlogged on sleep, so Lucien had taken shotgun with the maps.

One look at the seating arrangements of the truck and Feyre knew they'd only last so long before blood was drawn.

It had started when Rhys took a wrong turn, and escalated when he messed up the detour they'd had to take. But what really made the redhead lose it was Rhys’ driving. His truck had a lot of horsepower, and Rhys had a penchant for driving fast with one arm dangling from his rolled down window to feel the wind.

That in itself wouldn't be too much of a problem if the country roads they were taking weren't like a child had scribbled them in pencil then erased half the lines.

Lucien had one hand braced on his seat and the other fisted in his map. His eyes were so wide, he looked like he was going to astral project into the fifth dimension. Feyre would have laughed at the look on his face if she herself weren't constantly tightening her seatbelt.

The head of Night made a hairpin turn much too quickly, and Feyre felt her stomach turn a little.

Lucien hissed, his face beginning to flush. “Rhysand, you're going to kill us all.”

“Foxboy, relax. The red on your face is clashing terribly with your hair.”

Lucien looked like he was an inch away from ending the dark-haired man’s life. “ _Slow. The fuck. Down.”_

In response, Rhys grinned and pushed on the accelerator.

Feyre growled. So much for the peaceful drive. “Alright, children, if that's how you want to play, I'm ending your game. Rhys, pull over and get out. I don't know why you drive like a madman when you're always mother-henning the rest of us about being safe. Lucien’s driving.” Lucien began to grin, and Feyre levelled a finger at him. “One word from you, and _I’m_ driving.”

Feyre was pleased at the steel in her voice, and even more pleased when Rhys slowly pulled over and shut off the engine. The two men wordlessly exchanged places, and Rhys immediately began sulking in the passenger seat. Feyre rolled her eyes.

She glanced beside her at Rose, who hadn't stirred since she'd fallen asleep an hour into the drive. The smaller woman had made a nest of her seat and was curled into a tight ball on her side, the top of her dark head barely touching Feyre’s thigh.

“How did she sleep through all of that?” wondered Feyre out loud.

Lucien paused adjusting the driver’s seat and turned to look. A soft expression crossed his sharp features and Feyre almost looked away, feeling a bit like she was intruding in the moment.

Rose was tucked completely in herself, her knees drawn up almost to her chin. The stress and subtle weariness usually found on her face was gone, replaced with a look of peace and the faintest hint of a smile. The young, fierce surgeon was gone, replaced by an even younger, vulnerable person.

Lucien smiled fondly, and shrugged off his sweater. “Sleep is a hard thing to come by when you work 30 hour shifts plus overtime in trauma.” The redhead leaned over the seat, gently settling his sweater atop Rose. She burrowed into it, still fast asleep, tucking her nose into the fabric and breathing deeply. “And it doesn't help that she eats like a bird.”

“Infrequently and in small amounts?” Feyre clarified.

Lucien nodded, brushing a stray piece of hair from Rose’s face before turning and starting the truck. “Yeah.” He looked at Rhys. “If you'd woken her up, she would have murdered you.”

“I'm sure you would've loved to help,” muttered Rhys, his back still turned the truck’s occupants.

Lucien snickered, eyes on the road and driving at a reasonable speed. “Oh, Rose doesn't need my help. We'd all sit back and watch.”

Rhys looked at Feyre, seeking support. She shook her head. “You kind of deserve it for nearly killing us all.” But to take the sting out of her words, Feyre threaded her fingers through his inky black hair. Rhys didn't say anything, but his subtle lean into her hand was enough to make her smile.

* * *

 

The sharp tang of decaying leaves permeated the air, the distant warbling of birds surrounding the trail with music. Feyre breathed in deeply, inhaling the pungent scents of the forest.

Feyre had chosen this particular trail to hike. Earlier in the morning Rose had handed her some brochures mapping out the different hiking trails, letting Feyre pick one according to her preference.

Feyre had picked an easy trail which followed a stream to a small waterfall, then looped back through the forest to the trail’s start. The trail was not noted to be an overly popular one, though Rose swore up and down it was one of the most breathtaking.

For what she could see, Feyre had to hand it to her friend. The trail was gorgeous. Tall oaks and elms grew in the forest, their red, orange and yellow foliage occasionally punctuated by the deep green needles of pine and spruce. The path was well-maintained, the packed dirt solid beneath her feet. The birdsong was punctuated with occasional bouts of laughter and Rose pointing out certain plants or landmarks.

Rose and Lucien were walking in front, chatting to each other and their companions behind. They were more relaxed then she’s ever seen them, freely joking and laughing with each other, a fair amount roughhousing included.

Rhys leaned into her, and Feyre could smell him. Somehow, in the middle of the woods, he still smelled the same. A faint smile curled her lips, and Rhys brushed his knuckles against hers. She nodded at the two before them. “They look good, don’t they?”

Rhys hummed, tilting his head and pretending to evaluate them. Lucien was holding something just out of reach from Rose, and the short brunette was attempting to climb him to get it. Rose was trying to keep the amusement from her face, and Lucien openly laughed at her failed scramble up his torso. Feyre grinned at the sight.

“Rose is cute,” said Rhys. “But Lucien…” He grimaced a little. “Too lanky, too red.” Feyre swiped at the back of his head, but Rhys ducked out of the way. “Hey, you asked!”

Feyre laughed a little. “Try to play nice, Rhys. They invited us.”

Rhys swept into a small bow, looking up at Feyre and winking. Her heart gave a little thump. “For you, Feyre darling, anything.”

Feyre smirked, tipping her head at Lucien. “I think we should help out Rose a bit. She seems like she’s struggling.” The climbing-Lucien-like-a-vine tactic hadn’t worked, so Rose had resorted to jumping for her prize. That didn’t seem any more effective, and had Lucien laughing so hard he was gasping.

Feyre had never seen Lucien like this before. She’d seen him in all his other moods, ranging from near-tears to fit-to-murder, but never… playful. The weight he seemed to carry with him had vanished from his shoulders, and a mischievous spark lit his russet eye. He looked so much younger, both him and Rose, teasing and messing around on the trail.

Rose was still jumping, reaching for the thing the redhead held captive over her head. Rhys sauntered over and casually plucked it out of Lucien’s fingers, presenting it to Rose with a dramatic flourish. Rose smirked at Lucien, who hadn’t quite processed what had just happened. Then she grabbed the thing and skipped over to Feyre.

Rose opened her hand, and in her palm was a small, astonishingly vivid blue-grey rock. “This was lying on the path; someone must have kicked it up from the stream.” Feyre picked up the rock and rolled it around her palm. “I thought it matched your eyes.” Rose smiled up at Feyre, and they walked side-by-side to where the others were standing.

Feyre blinked, touched at the small but thoughtful gesture. “Thanks,” she said, picking her brain for something better to say.

But the moment passed and Rose bounded up to Lucien, leaving Feyre holding a rock and an unfinished feeling. She pocketed the small stone and looked up just in time to catch Rose beckoning to Lucien to lower his head. Rose made to whisper something in his ear, but instead pulled the tie from his hair and danced away. “That’s for making short jokes!” she laughed.

Lucien, his hair a mess around his shoulders, sprinted after her, hot on her heels. The two disappeared around a bend in the trail, and Feyre raised an eyebrow at Rhys. “Well, that was effective,” said Feyre.

“What’d she give you?” asked Rhys. Feyre handed him the rock.

“She said it was the colour of my eyes.”

Rhys held the rock beside Feyre’s face. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

There was a pause, and Lucien and Rose’s laughter drifted back to them.

“That was a little strange,” said Feyre. “She just handed me a rock, then ran off.”  

Rhys sighed. “Rose and Lucien are both very damaged people. We all are, in our own ways, but…” He trailed off, and Feyre squeezed his arm in encouragement. “Rocks, especially ones that are small enough to fidget with, are something of an anchor for her. It’s really not my story to tell. I found out by accident.” Rhys looked Feyre in the eye. “Keep the rock.”

She took the rock back, feeling its weight and running a thumb over its smooth surface. Before she could say anything else, a high-pitched shriek had them both jumping from their skins.

Lucien walked back around the corner, a shit-eating grin on his face and Rose slung over his shoulder. His hair was still untied. “C’mon, slow pokes,” he called, Rose giggling from behind his back. “If you take any longer the waterfall will erode away!”

Feyre saw the glint in Rhys’ eye a moment too late. “Oh no you don’t,” she said, but she had only retreated a single step before Rhys grabbed her around the waist and picked her up.

Rhys grunted. “You’re heavier than you look,” he said, but didn’t set her down. Feyre tugged on his hair in response.

“It’s all muscle.”

* * *

 

The night was cloudless, and from her spot on the docks, Feyre could see an endless expanse of sky. Millions of tiny stars were scattered across the heavens, and the moon bathed the entire scene with a pale glow.

Rhys was pointing out constellations to her, animatedly telling the story behind each one. Feyre was listening, but a good part of her was also watching him.

The night suited him. Feyre couldn’t help but note how his hair was so black it blended into the shadow, or how his dark skin was illuminated by the moon and shone. Rhys’ violet eyes mirrored the stars above, and Feyre had never wanted to paint someone so badly. She'd never try, though. It'd be almost rude to put someone who shone so brightly to canvas and not get them quite right.

Rhys stopped talking, and turned his head to face Feyre. They were almost nose to nose, just inches apart.

Her breath hitched when Rhys took a lock of her hair in his fingers, rolling the strands back and forth so they shone silver in the moonlight.

“Rhys,” she breathed, and summoned every ounce of courage she possessed. “You're beautiful.”

His fingers stilled in her hair before moving to her cheek, gently tracing the contours of her face. “I know,” said Rhys, and Feyre wanted to slap him but the moment was _too good,_ and-

“But you, Feyre darling, are _breathtaking._ ”

When their lips met, it was as gentle as the starlight on their skin. Rhys tasted of the night air, crisp and cool. The kiss was soft and sweet and a little bit urgent, and Feyre wanted to sink into the moment and never emerge.

It was her lungs that drew her away, demanding oxygen. Rhys propped himself  up on an elbow and ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Well, that was something.”

Feyre grabbed his neck and pulled him down for another kiss. “You talk too much.”

* * *

 

When they returned to the campsite, the fire had already been lit, and the marshmallows and hotdogs had been laid out. Chairs were ringed around the burning logs, and Lucien was tuning his guitar. Rose stretched out beside him, wearing his sweater again.

Upon their entrance, Rose immediately noted their kiss-swollen lips and grinned. She nudged Lucien with her foot. “Look who’s back,” she said.

Feyre took a seat beside Lucien, and Rhys sat in the remaining chair. The redhead looked up from his instrument and smirked. “So the lovebirds finally deign to grace us with their presence.”

Feyre refused to be embarrassed, straightening her spine and staring the other two down. Rhys flicked a hand at Lucien.

“I resent that, foxboy. There's no grace when you're hanging around, no matter our glorious presence.” Rhys’ hand curled around Feyre's, and she gave it a small squeeze.

The two men continued to bicker, Lucien making a display of loudly tuning his guitar whenever Rhys spoke. Feyre rolled her eyes, and Rose quirked a smile at her.

Feyre knew Rose had orchestrated the time she'd spent alone with Rhys on the docks. The brunette had all pushed Feyre and Rhys out of the campsite, claiming that everyone needed to be down at the docks to see the stars ‘alone’ at least once, and that she and Lucien could handle the fire preparations.

Feyre mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ over the fire, and Rose beamed. A kiss was blown back over the flames, and Feyre pretended to snatch it from the air.

“What, are you Rose’s girl now?” joked Rhys, having seen their exchange.

“I've always been her girl,” said Feyre, at the exact same time Rose said, “She’s always been my girl.”

The two women looked at each other before bursting into laughter. Rhys sighed and looked to Lucien. “You're a poor substitute, but I guess you'll have to do.”

Lucien turned the peg of the string he was tuning a little too far, and stared at Rhys like he'd sprouted a second head. “Excuse me?”

Rose hummed in amusement, smirking at the redhead beside her. “You're a little flat there, Lu.”

“ _Thank_ you, Rose.” Ever sarcastic in both words and actions, he leveled a glare at the other man. “Rhys has made me temporarily deaf.”

Feyre grabbed a hotdog, spearing it on a roasting stick before holding it over some coals. “You've been holding that guitar for so long I'm starting to think you don't know what to do. Can you play it?”

Lucien pushed some stray hair from his face before grinning at her. “Hell yes, I can.” He dug out a pick from his back pocket. “Any requests?”

“Love Me Like You Do from 50 Shades of Grey,” said Rhys, without missing a single beat. Lucien rolled his eyes.

“Vetoed for the campfire, tagged for the bedroom. Any other requests?”

“Good Riddance,” suggested Feyre. Rose smiled, and Lucien clamped on his capo.

“Now _that_ I can do.”

When Lucien started strumming the opening of the song, Feyre was pleasantly surprised. Her eyebrows raised and a smile stretched her lips. Rhys whistled lowly.

“Damn, foxboy, that’s some hidden talent.”

Lucien flashed him a wicked smile. “I have lots of hidden talents. No one asks.”

“Are you going to sing?” Feyre asked Rhys. The head of Night chuckled, bumping his shoulder to hers.

“Not unless you want to listen to a dying walrus. You should sing, though. I’m curious if your singing voice is as lovely as your speaking one.”

Feyre blushed lightly, and was thankful the firelight wasn’t enough to expose her pink cheeks. “We’ll see.”

The intro came to an end, and Lucien modified the strum pattern.

_Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road_   
_Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go_   
_So let’s make the best of this test, and don’t ask why  
It’s not a question but a lesson learned in time_

Rose’s voice was really something. Just like the woman herself, it was sweet and passionate, with the suggestion of something more wild woven in. Feyre sighed. “Why is everyone here a closeted musician?”

_So take the photographs and still frames in your mind_   
_Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time_   
_Tattoos and memories and dead skin on trial  
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while_

The crackling fire, music, smell of wood-smoke, and the warm food was a heady combination. Feyre sighed again, content for the moment, and put all her troubles on hold. She leaned across her chair to lay her head on Rhys’ shoulder, breathing him in as he carded his fingers through her hair.

_It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right  
_ _I hope you have the time of your life_

Almost unconsciously, Feyre mouthed the words and quietly sung, Lucien and Rose’s music drawing the song from her. A pocket of sap popped in one of the burning logs, sending sparks floating to the stars above. Feyre watched them flicker brightly before fading into the night.

_It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right  
_ _I hope you have the time of your life_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh. Posting has not made me like this chapter any more. There are things in this chappie that allude to other things in other chapters later on, though chronological order has little place. The song Feyre suggested is Good Riddance by Greenday. The acoustic guitar is pretty cool in the recording, give it listen if you've got time. Every single guitarist I've ever met almost always had a pick on them at any given time, so Lucien is taking a page from their book.
> 
> The feysand scene was short, but there'll be more of that later. 
> 
> I'm super excited for the next chapter, but it needs some more tweaking first. It's also the last of my buffer, not that I had much of one to begin with, heh. 
> 
> Thank you for all your kind words and support! Kudos make my day, and comments (especially requests or prompts) get the creative juices flowing! Enjoy your day!


	5. F*ck This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anthology of a few moments from the many defining Lucien's life.
> 
> Or: Five Times Lucien Didn't Cry and One Time He Did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @BastardSonOfDay /Diana_Raven, who requested Lucien+Practically Everyone. I hope this is what you had in mind! I may have really piled on the angst... 
> 
> This is a bit of a messy one, in which A LOT of things are going on. Multiple POVs happen, and I found their inner dialogue... difficult. Lucien's inner dialogue is also markedly different from the way I usually write it, but I generally believe that people aren't as mentally snarky when their world is literally burning around them, and though naturally sassy, his snark is also a mask directed mostly outwards. I tried to translate that into the writing when I could. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: mentions of and graphic abuse, allusion to unidentified mental illness, dubious sexual consent+ramifications, thoughts of suicide
> 
> Like I said, this is a heavy (and very long) one. It doesn't feel right to say my usual 'Enjoy!', but I hope the read is decent.

  * 1•



Though Lucien was only seven years old, he already loved the colour of his skin. In the sun it glowed bronze, and he would imagine he was a metal sculpture brought to life, an artist’s greatest masterpiece. Indoors he thought his skin just looked brown, but that was good too. Indoors, with his brown skin and red hair, Lucien became a tree, thin and graceful, with soft brown bark and leaves forever caught in fiery autumn.

Yes, Lucien loved his skin. But that didn't mean others did too. His brothers were a prime example.

He had been minding his own business, chasing chipmunks through the forest behind his home, when they'd found him. The twins, Sade and Calen, were 15 and had little trouble strong-arming seven-year-old Lucien into the toolshed. They weren't very gentle and Lucien didn't like the way Calen tugged on his wrist, so he’d kicked the older twin in the shin.

Lucien had smirked as Calen cursed and hopped on one foot, but Sade had twisted his arm behind his back until he’d yelled. There on in, the journey from forest to shed occurred without incident. From his position slung painfully over Sade’s beefy shoulder, the most Lucien could do was watch Calen limp.

The twins had taken the time to prepare their things beforehand, so all Lucien needed to do was stay still while the older boys tied his legs to a stool. He'd been promised that their game would be fun, and though he wanted to trust them he was seven and plenty old enough to know that their fun often meant his hurt.

Lucien long would have kicked off the rope and run away, but Eris would have found out. He always found out; Eris knew everything. The oldest sibling then would've told their father, and Lucien would've gotten in trouble for whatever the twins would have done.

No, Lucien was a big boy, and after his broken arm two years ago, he wouldn't scream no matter what. He'd just put deer droppings under their beds after the fact, and laugh as _they_ got in trouble for stinking up the house.  

Sade pulled a plastic tub from a corner of the shed, positioning it at Lucien’s side. “Is that for the game?” asked Lucien.

Sade nodded, patting his younger sibling a little too harshly on the head to be considered brotherly. “Yup. Calen and I got the idea when we went down to the laundry in town to collect a bet we'd won. Isn't that right?”

Calen was rooting through a pile of large jugs, and spun around triumphantly when he'd found the right one. “Yup,” said the twin, patting the jug. Liquid sloshed inside. “We saw the laundress there do the most amazing thing…” He walked closer, shaking the container so Lucien could clearly hear its contents. “See, she had these sheets which had a stain on them. All she used was this-” the jug was raised, “-and _voila_ , the stain was gone.”

Sade took the jug from his brother and unscrewed the lid. The caustic smell of bleach drifted out like a ghost, creeping to Lucien’s nose. “Little brother, we’re gonna bleach you white.”

The first trickles of fear set in, but there was mostly confusion. “Why?” he asked. The curious seven-year-old blinked up at his brothers, russet eyes huge and searching. “I like my skin.”

Calen merely rolled his eyes, but Sade snarled. “Yeah? Do any of the rest of us look like that? You're the only one, twig.” Sade opened his mouth to say more, but the older twin clamped a mammoth hand around his shoulder and spoke over him.

“We’re just trying to help you fit in, Lucien.” Calen’s words were honeyed sweet, contrasting his twin’s gruff contempt.

“If you're a Vanserra, little freak, you should at least look like one,” said Sade.

Lucien eyed his brothers. Standing side by side, they were mirror images of poison green eyes deeply set in pale faces with twin shocks of too-red hair.

No, Lucien decided. He didn't want to look like them. Especially not Sade, whose lips were always twisted in a permanent frown. “But I was born this way,” Lucien said. That seemed like sound logic. “I can't help it, just like you can't help having a girl’s name.”

Sade lunged forwards, almost losing the bleach in the process, but Calen held him back. The younger twin snarled and shook off his brother’s hand, savagely dumping the entire jug of bleach into the plastic tub beside Lucien’s stool.

“Alright, you little shit. Let's see how long it takes from your skin turning white to when your flesh burns off your bones.”

Suddenly, his fight-or-flight response kicked in, and Lucien began thrashing against the ropes binding his legs and Calen’s thick arm around his chest. Sade was forcing his right hand into the tub. Lucien felt cold liquid touch his fingers, scented the sterile bleach, and his panic kicked up another notch. The muscle of Calen’s forearm was right in front of his face; without thinking Lucien sunk his teeth into it.

Calen roared, but didn't loosen his hold on Lucien. If anything, the pressure on the seven-year-old’s chest only increased. “He bit me!” yelled the older twin, and in retaliation Sade shoved Lucien’s arm up to the elbow in bleach, almost wrenching him from the stool. Calen was still shouting, and Lucien’s ears rang. “The fucker bit me!”

“Then let go of me, stupid!” Lucien yelled back, using the word he wasn't allowed to say. “You're hurting my arm!”

But either they didn't hear or they didn't care, for both twins continued bleaching and restraining him. The bleach was starting to burn his skin. He could feel it, like it was sucking his arm in and slowly dissolving the flesh. Lucien continued thrashing, kicking his ankles to loosen the ropes and wriggling like an eel in Calen’s hold.

His frantic yells must have been heard, as a large shadow suddenly darkened the shed. All three boys froze, staring at the figure in the doorway.

“Next time,” said Eris, “When you torture someone on the estate at least close the shed door. You're going to disturb Father.”

Unlike the twins, who were both suddenly paralyzed, Lucien bucked against his restraints and was rewarded with landing in a heap on the ground. Eris stared down his nose at the young boy, and Lucien was caught between feeling ecstatic that his oldest sibling had come for him and feeling terrified for the same reason.

Eris coldly surveyed the shed. “Clean this up,” he said to the twins, and both boys began righting things immediately. Eris grabbed Lucien by the collar and dragged him from the shed.

Walking down the grass of the expansive lawn, Eris gave his little brother a once-over. Lucien’s red hair had twigs caught in it, his clothes were all rumpled, his eyes were rimmed red and his right arm was raw with the beginnings of a chemical burn. “Don't let Father see you like this,” was all Eris said.

Lucien hung his head. His arm hurt a lot, his throat was sore from yelling, and he'd said a bad word he might get spanked for. He wanted a hug, even from Eris, but he'd only made _that_ mistake once. Instead, tears stung his eyes and Lucien sniffed.

Eris grabbed Lucien's burned arm, making the young boy whine. “Stop that,” said Eris, giving Lucien a harsh shake. “Men don't cry.”

And then he left him there, standing alone and shivering on the lawn. To his credit, Lucien only hiccuped once before blinking away the tears and choking down the sobs. He was seven, practically all grown up, and Men don't cry. Not even men whose brothers had tried to bleach them white.

_Men don't cry._

  * 2•



Lucien knew that at this point, any normal person would be beside themselves with tears. But his eyes were bone-dry, and Lucien hated himself for it.

He was in a dingy hotel room with Tamlin, and they were on their way to some secret government facility Tam worked for. On any other day Lucien would have a million and one questions for his friend, but on this day all Lucien could do was to try and will himself to cry.

But no tears came, not even a single drop of moisture. So Lucien sat on the grubby bed and stared at a point on the floor without saying a word. He felt the matress dip beside him, but didn't look up.

He could hear Tamlin’s breathing. It was too loud in the small room, and a heavy weight seemed to press on Lucien’s chest. “Stop,” whispered Lucien.

Tamlin looked at him. “Stop what?”

“Just stop,” said Lucien. His hands were starting to shake, so he balled them into fists. “It's too loud, there's too much sound. Make it stop.” The breathing, fabric shifting on fabric, the shitty air conditioning, the whir of the ceiling fan and the groaning of rusty pipes; all the white noise, usually glossed over by the ear, was suddenly screaming at him, forcing itself into his brain. Lucien clamped his trembling hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound.

Tamlin looked at his friend, and simple concern warred with the budding of fear within him. Lucien was always put together, always ready with a biting remark or some funny anecdote to entertain. He always made sure he looked his best, and now he was falling apart right in front of Tamlin’s eyes.

Suddenly, Lucien jerked from the bed and stumbled to the bathroom, almost wrenching off the door in his haste. Lucien stood in front of the mirror, gripping the sink like a lifeline. He stared into the smudged glass, trying to recognize the reflection.

A man stared back at him from the mirror, drawn and haunted. Bronze skin had turned waxy and pale, previously shiny red hair was limp and tangled. The eyes were a dull brown, ringed with dark circles. A rich bruise painted the right cheekbone.

Lucien looked at the stranger in the glass. Another reflection moved into view, and Lucien's eyes flicked up to see Tamlin hovering in the doorway. He saw it coming but couldn't help starting when Tamlin’s huge hand touched his shoulder.

Lucien jumped so badly that he knocked over the rack of towels, and the clattering noise was so deafening that he clamped his hands over his ears again.

“Hey,” said Tamlin. His hands were outstretched and he took a step towards Lucien. “I'm just trying to help you.”

But the redhead hastily stumbled backwards, away from his friend. “Don't touch me,” he snarled, every bit a wild animal hurt and cornered.

Tamlin stood where he was. “You should at least change.”

Lucien looked down at his shirt, as if he were suddenly aware he was wearing clothing. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, already dried and stiff. The tang of copper filled his nose, and Lucien couldn't rip the garment off fast enough. Acid burned his throat, and he barely made it to the toilet before vomiting.

Tamlin stood, watching his younger friend try to empty an already-empty stomach. His long hair was getting in the way, but Tamlin didn't have a hair tie and didn't want to touch Lucien for fear of worsening things.

In his time with the government, Tamlin had seen many people deal with PTSD, had dealt with innumerable panic attacks, but this was something different. Lucien acted like he was having a sensory overload, his body feeding too much information to his brain all at once.

Finished with his retching, Lucien bonelessly slumped against the wall. “Gods, Tamlin,” he said. He raised his hands, watching them shake. “What have I done?”

Tamlin didn't answer. There was nothing he could do but let Lucien work through it. The tremor in his hands had spread to the rest of him, his thin body vibrating like a plucked string. At this rate the younger man (just a boy, really, but Tamlin didn’t want to dwell on that) would exhaust himself.

Lucien looked at his hands, the long and slender bronze fingers he’d known all his life. Even though he’d long ago scrubbed off the flaking blood, he could still see it coating his fingers red; could still _feel_ it dripping thick and steady down his knuckles.

 _I killed someone,_ he thought. The words rang in his empty mind. _I killed my own fucking brother._ He’d watched _her_ die ( _you let her die_ , said Eris’ voice. Lucien agreed, because Eris was usually right), he’d committed treason against his own family ( _You’ll get what’s coming_ , hissed Sade, and Lucien tore away from him, his chest still weeping blue ink), then he'd killed his brother.

Lucien had slit his throat, cut out his tattoo, and burned the rest of the body. All done in true Vanserra style; efficiently and without any visible remorse.

He was sick of himself, and Lucien hunched over the toilet again.

Tamlin walked out of the bathroom and returned to find the redhead curled on his side across the cheap linoleum tile. The head of Spring crouched down beside Lucien’s face, careful not to touch him. He placed an orange prescription bottle on the floor in front of Lucien’s nose.

“You need to sleep,” said Tamlin, tapping the bottle. “We have a long drive tomorrow.” When his friend didn’t respond, Tamlin sighed and left. He’d never been very good with people, especially those who were hurting.

Lucien watched Tamlin walk out the door, then turned his apathetic gaze to the orange bottle. _Zolpidem_ , read the label, and Lucien knew his mother had the same prescription. Sleeping pills. He tipped over the tube with a finger, and the crash of plastic on linoleum and the rattling of pills was enough to make him wince.

Lucien remembered an old family friend who’d overdosed on sleep medication. He’d been devastated; whenever the elderly lady had dropped by for business, she’d always made sure to bring Lucien something small and sweet. She’d pat him on the head and ruffle his hair, and he didn’t mind because it didn’t hurt. But she was dead now, had been for years, and it was by those same pills he had in front of him.

It was an easy death, he’d been told. She’d just went to sleep and never woke up.

Lucien eyed the bottle, counting the little tablets. There were a lot of pills; sleeping for eternity didn’t sound so terrible. Not if it would silence his mind and still his shaking hands.

And his eyes were so fucking dry.

  * 3•



“Why does it have to be you?”

Andras sighed, paused in his packing and turned to Lucien. “Because I’m a soldier, and I work for Spring.” Lucien didn’t look very impressed with the answer, and Andras pointed a finger at him. “You work for Spring too, might I add. I never mope when you disappear for weeks to sweet talk someone into signing a piece of paper.”

Lucien sullenly kicked at the foot of the bed he was perched on. “I know, but this is different.”

The soldier blinked. He’d been expecting some snippy remark, not that ominous warning. A chill worked its way down his spine, but Andras resumed shoving socks into his black duffle. “It’s a routine reconnaissance mission. I go in, circle the area, and get out. Easy-peasy.”

“But you’re going past the wall,” hissed Lucien. The taller man started pacing, his red hair whipping about his face. “I went through some files on the place-”

“Where they on Tamlin’s desk? That’s illegal.”

“-illegal and not your concern. But I read them, and Andras…” Lucien paused beside the duffel bag, taking the sock from Andras’ hands to get his full attention. “Everyone knows that place was nuked years ago, before our entire generation was even a thought. It was demolished; nothing survived. So why send scouts all of a sudden?” Andras chewed on his lip, and Lucien looked him dead in the eye. “There's something out there. I listened to the helmet audios of the other scouts and it's not very pretty.” Lucien grimaced. “I thought you should know what you were walking into.”

Andras eyed his friend for a moment before taking the sock back and zipping up his bag. “Thanks, Lucien, but I still have to go tomorrow. It's my duty.”

Lucien looked away, mumbling something into his sleeve.

“What?” asked Andras.

“I can't lose you too.” In that moment, thought Andras, Lucien looked so very small. Something vulnerable shone in his russet eye, and Andras felt the urge to wrap him in a hug.

But the redhead ran a hand over his face, and the moment was over. “Fuck it,” he said. “I need alcohol.”

“Like hell you're drinking now,” said Andras, grabbing his laptop from the table and trying to restore some semblance of normalcy. “I’m going to watch CSI:Miami while you bitch about how terribly the characters do their jobs. Just like old times.”

“I don't bitch, I'm pointing out why your time could be better spent watching Suits.”

Andras just grinned, pulling up the show and forcing Lucien to sit on the bed with him. The theme had just started playing and the redheaded man had already started his theatrics. “If the show itself is so bad, they could have at least invested in better music. My ears are going to fall off.”

* * *

 

Three episodes later and they'd finished the season. Lucien had long fallen asleep curled against the headboard, and Andras was left staring at his friend.

 _Friend._ The word had Andras smiling wryly at the coverlet. He thought he was very lucky to be called Lucien’s friend, as the man was known to be picky with the people he kept close. But in the same thread, Andras had grown to rely on Lucien and his own feelings of friendship had changed.

Andras couldn’t say he was in love with Lucien. No, he wasn’t in love. He couldn’t love someone who would never love him back. It wasn’t because Lucien didn't like men; there were enough rumours floating around the courts about his exploits that Andras would laugh at anyone who suggested otherwise. It wasn’t because Lucien already loved someone else, because Andras knew he didn’t. Some might say that the emissary loved Rose, but Andras knew that to be untrue. The pair were very close and he would bet his life’s savings that they were fucking, but Lucien didn’t have that star-struck quality in his gaze he knew people in love developed.

Andras knew that Lucien could never love him because of the walls Lucien had built. They were impenetrable fortresses around his heart, keeping everything locked in and everyone locked out. Those walls would one day come down, Andras knew, but it would not be him responsible.

But the soldier _did_ feel something more than friendship for the man curled on his bed. Something warmed in Andras’ chest as he watched Lucien sleep; there was something so unusually vulnerable to the man who surrounded himself in thorns. With one hand slipping off the bed, his hair spread about like a halo of flame and all the stress melted from his face, Andras would almost say he looked peaceful. A stray strand of hair fell across Lucien’s face, and he reached to brush it aside.

But that was not his place, so Andras checked himself before gathering his things. It was almost 1:30 in the morning and he needed sleep. Not here, with his closest friend curled on his duvet. That was too enticing, and a line Andras would not cross. He’d sleep in the bunks left in the hangar.

* * *

 

Lucien woke up in someone else’s bed. A quick glance about the room proved it was Andras’, and his heart sunk at seeing it was empty. He sighed and swung his legs to the floor, cursing when his foot met Andras’ laptop where it was left on the bed.

“Dammit, Andras,” he muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it, so he went to wash his face.

Upon emerging from the bathroom, Lucien noted that Andras’ room was in its usual state: two inches from looking like a hurricane had run through. So, Lucien did what any good friend would do and started to put things back where they belonged.

The laptop was returned to the table and plugged in. The shirts dumped on the ‘good to wear’ chair were folded or hung up, and all clothing on the floor was thrown in the hamper. Anything that Lucien didn’t know where to put was arranged neatly on top of the dresser.

When Lucien had finished, the room looked almost spartan. Andras really hadn’t invested in much decor, and now that the space was cleared it felt unlived-in. Checking his phone for the time (7:36, _dammit Tam is going to throw a fit_ ), he opened the door and almost stepped out.

But something stopped him, and Lucien turned back.

He knew it, _in his bones_ , that if he put his foot over the doorway he’d never come back. He’d known it yesterday, and he knew it today. _Maybe he’ll come back,_ said a voice in his head, but Lucien knew better. Only the first scout sent past the wall had returned, and he’d died within days from radiation poisoning.

So Lucien put all the troublesome memories in a box in his mind, labelled it _Andras_ , and promised himself he’d go through them later when he had time and a bottle of vodka.

But right now he was going to be late, so he stepped out the door and began walking back to his own rooms to change. His left eye started itching, and Lucien cursed himself and his carelessness. He hadn’t taken out his prosthesis before he’d slept, and now he’d pay for it with an eye as dry as the Sahara.

  * 4•



Lucien really hadn’t thought things through when he’d decided to go to the Night court’s firing range to blow off steam.

It was the furthest court from Spring, which was why he’d chosen it, but that also meant walking through endless halls with people gaping at him. _That_ he could deal with, but now that he was there, he also had to deal with Rhysand.

“Hello, foxboy,” came Rhys’ slick voice, and he appeared seemingly from thin-air at Lucien’s elbow. The emissary started, and his shot went slightly wide from centre. “What brings you to my humble abode?” The head of Night smirked, and Lucien wanted to curse. Of course the bastard had startled him just to ruin his shot.

“Dammit, Rhys.” He picked a different target and shot again, a trickle of satisfaction rewarding the new hole in the metal target’s forehead. “I was visiting Feyre.”

“That’s a lie. She’s in a class with Mor right now.” If that man weren’t rich enough to buy his entire life, Lucien would have punched him for the smugness in his voice.

“I’m not in the mood to deal with your fucking mind-games.” Another shot, straight through the target’s false heart. “Even I didn’t think you were stupid enough to harass someone with a gun.” The words had more bite than usual, and Rhys raised an eyebrow.

“Did someone piss you off? Is that why you’re here moping?”

Lucien grit his teeth and turned his head to look Rhys in the eye. “You have the best range in the compound, alright?” An awkward pause as Lucien waited for Rhys to gloat, but the head of Night only stared. “Wasn’t that what you came for, so I could kiss your ass then run off with my tail between my legs?”

Rhys ignored him. “What the hell happened to your face?” On the right side of Lucien’s face, the side Rhys hadn’t seen until he’d turned his head, was a red print and a fresh gash, oozing congealing blood.

“I was sparring and it got out of hand,” came the crisp response. Lucien was decidedly not meeting Rhys’ eyes.

“Bullshit,” said Rhys. “Give me the truth or I start asking some _very_ uncomfortable questions.”

“Why do you even care?” asked Lucien. “I’m nothing to you. You have your friends and your Inner Circle, of which all of them hate my guts.”

“Feyre doesn’t,” said Rhys, and Lucien became strangely still. _Bingo,_ thought Rhys, and he continued his probing. “Remember the mystery bruising that kept appearing around her wrists? That stopped when she transferred courts.”

The emissary flicked on the safety of his gun and holstered it, pivoting on his heel to face Rhys. At that moment, everything about him was sharp. His movements, face, the lines of his body, his words and tone; everything about Lucien was telling Rhys to _fuck off_. “He had a ring on, alright? I don’t usually bleed.”

Rhys felt his blood chill. _Usually._ So this happened more often than once in a blue moon. “Lucien, who had a ring on?”

“Can you not come to conclusions on your own, or does your Inner Circle do that for you too?” Lucien hissed.

Rhys didn’t back down, refusing to feel hurt from the words of a cornered animal. “At least I have more than three friends, and none of them hit me.”

Dead silence and a face made of stone was the response, and Rhys almost felt sick. Lucien was thick skinned, he knew, but Rhys had found the line and crossed it by a fucking mile. The head of Night sighed and raked a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, that was out of line.” No response. “I’m trying to help you, but you’re making it very difficult.”

Lucien laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. “Thank you for your concern, kind sir,” he said, venom dripping from his words. “But I won’t be your next fucking charity case. I can fix my own shit.”

Rhys could tell when he wasn’t wanted, and turned to walk away. “Then you’re going to need a lot of glue, foxboy.” He paused after he’d exited the room, waiting behind the wall with the door open a crack. People were always more genuine when they thought they were alone.

Three shots echoed in the silence, two of them making distinctive metal pings when they hit the target, the last thumping quietly into the padded wall. Rhys raised an eyebrow. Even in the Night court people knew Lucien was a good shot. He seldom missed centre, let alone the entire target.

“Fucking hell,” Lucien muttered. Two more shots, two more pings. The sound of someone rubbing a hand across their face. “Why can’t I just fucking cry?”

_Oh._

  * 5•



The water was so hot that Lucien’s skin was turning visibly red, which was not always an easy feat considering his complexion. Even more impressive was the fact that he could see through all the steam clouding the shower.

None of that mattered, though, not when he was trying to rid himself of every impression of her.

It had been a routine assignment: pop over to Ianthe’s board meeting as a guest interested in investing, ask some questions, maybe snoop in her office a bit. Instead, he had ended up calling Tamlin from the basement of Ianthe’s hotel on a burn phone. “I’m done, Tam,” he’d said. “She’s not giving me anything useful unless I have sex with her, so pull me out.”

“If you had sex with her, would you get what I need on Hybern?” Complete apathy in his voice.

“Maybe. I don’t know, but I sure as hell am not going to find out.”

“Just do it, Lucien. Oh, and a reminder that Spring court doesn’t cover the cost of condoms or lube, even on assignment.”

Lucien couldn’t believe what he had heard. “...What the fuck, Tamlin? I’m not a prostitute you can just lend out.”

Tamlin growled. “Certainly not, because no one’s paying for you to enjoy yourself. Just fuck her. She’s hot, so it can’t be hard.” The line went dead and Lucien stared at the black phone in his hand, wondering what the hell had happened to his life.

And he still wondered the same thing, standing under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing every inch of his skin with the most caustic soap he could find. He’d done the same thing moments earlier with a bristle brush. That had opened a million small micro-cuts all over his body, and the soap made them burn.

Good. Only fire could cleanse and purify this stain on his soul.

In his little shower microcosm, Ianthe was still with him. Not literally, of course, for he was in his suite in Spring. But Lucien could still feel her fingers at the nape of his neck, could still feel her breath against his collar bone.

Lucien could still smell her perfume, the sweet scent hiding the tang of its alcohol base. It was too floral for his taste, and Ianthe wore far too much of it. It had sunk deep enough into the fabric of the shirt he’d worn that Lucien had burned it in the incinerators. He’d had to pull some strings for access, but it was well worth it to smell something other than cherry blossoms, even if it was acrid smoke. Yet after the shirt was gone, even now as he’d washed with his usual shampoo (spearmint; mild but sharp and rich) and the lye soap (the package read ‘scentless’, but he could smell detergent), Lucien could smell cherry blossoms in the heated steam. He could feel the perfume taking root in his sinuses.

Her taste was still on his tongue, the taste of her lips and her skin and other places as well. Ianthe had liked what Lucien could do with his mouth, so for the sake of that _fucking information_ he had spent a good deal of time with his head between her legs. After it all, he’d brushed his teeth no less than five times, used half a bottle of Listerine and then considered drinking the rest. But that would be letting the world win, and Lucien knew nothing other than Me Against The World  TM. The remaining mouthwash stayed in its bottle.

And the fucking sounds. Gods, they were looping in his brain and Lucien wanted them out. Ianthe was one of the people who made those little stuttering gasps, soft and effeminate. She sounded like a mewling kitten. It was all he could do to bury his nose in the crook of her neck so Ianthe wouldn’t see his face, but that meant her mouth was by his ear and he could also feel the sounds as she made them.

But what made Lucien really hate himself was how Ianthe felt, because it was _so fucking good_. He’d gone into the situation ready to fill his mind with fantasy to suffer through having sex with a veritable demon, and had ended up blissfully consumed in her tight heat. Ianthe’s body was smooth and supple with model proportions, and though he hated her smell, taste, and sounds, even though the last thing he had wanted was to have sex with her, his traitorous body had decided otherwise and acted accordingly.

Why the hell hadn’t he walked away from this? Right, because everyone Lucien cared about was here, his source of income was here, this place was his home. And if he fucked up, Tamlin could take it all away as easy it’d been given.

His back met the blissful cool tiles of the shower wall, and Lucien slid down until he was seated on the ceramic floor. The cold soothed his scoured skin, and he hated it. His red hair had darkened to auburn from the water, and the wet strands clung to his face and shoulders. They felt like pale, grasping fingers, each adorned with rings, and for the first time Lucien wanted to cut it all off.

If he tipped his head back far enough, wondered Lucien, would the water run down his nose and mouth and into his lungs? Drowning may not be as painful as they all say… But he didn’t move, merely letting the spray run down his face. The liquid carved little lines through his skin, etching words into the bronze smoothness of it. _Whore_ , read one, written backwards so he could read it in the reflection of the shower’s glass door. _Whore, slut, cheater; you_ liked _it._

 _No,_ he tried to argue, but the words died on his tongue. _I didn’t_ want _to, I didn’t even want to touch her._

He blinked, and a trail of water ran from his eye. Lucien caught it with his tongue, pondering its taste. Tepid, unfiltered, slightly chlorinated, no salt.

 _But you_ liked _it._

  * 1•



Feyre knocked on the door to Lucien’s room and jumped when it was flung open, nearly hitting her in the face. Lucien pulled her inside, then hastily shut the door behind them.

“Hello to you too, Lucien. Thanks for nearly taking off my nose.”

Lucien flashed her a small, wane grin. “‘Nearly’ is the operative word there.” Then he promptly laid down, back on the floor, and scooted under the bed.

Feyre’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “... What the hell are you doing?”

There was a muffled grunt from under the bed, and a corner of the mattress lifted off the box frame. Lucien pulled himself out and brushed off some dust, tossing an opaque plastic baggie onto the side table. “Getting this.”

After checking that her friend was occupied with sorting through clothing, Feyre quietly opened the baggie and rifled through its contents.

A wad of some foreign cash, two foreign passports, IDs, and driver's licenses, all of them with his face and not a single thing with the name Lucien Vanserra. “What the fuck, Lucien?”

“Feyre, let me explain-”

“Everything you have in this bad is illegal. What- how did you even _get_ these?”

Lucien gave her a dry look. “I spent eighteen years in the world’s most notorious mafia. Take a wild guess.”

Feyre flipped through the documents, taking a closer look at the passports. His face didn’t look much different than it did now, so they must have been recent. Turning to the covers, she noticed that one passport was for the UK and the other for Morocco. “What are you doing with UK and Moroccan passports?”

“Going there, obviously.” Lucien turned back to his clothing, rifling through his drawers and pulling out several nondescript pieces. “Red hair is not unusual in northern Scotland, where I can find a small Gaelic town and lay low for a while. Morocco is where I’d blend right in and disappear,” Lucien wiggled his brown fingers, “but I don’t speak Arabic. I’ll get by with my Spanish and French while I learn.” When Feyre merely blinked at him, Lucien huffed, some of his twitchy energy leaching into his words. “It’s not that difficult to grasp. Gods, did they teach you anything in the Night court?”

“Don’t you turn this on me,” snapped Feyre. “You’re leaving?” When Lucien gave a brisk nod, she sat down heavily on the bed. “Why?”

“Aren’t you just full of interesting questions?” When Feyre growled and made to get off the bed Lucien quickly put both his hands up, his eyes widening at the show of aggression. “Alright, alright! Relax, Fey.” When she settled back on the bed, Lucien continued his packing. “You know I started working for Rhys as a consultant after Tamlin tore my contract a week before its automatic renewal. Well, the temporary contract I signed with Rhys is up. As a consultant I’m not actually in his employ, so unless I’m in the middle of an assignment I’ve been signed on for, I can’t stay here on the facility.”

“Why can’t you just sign on again and stay in the next town over in the meantime?”

Lucien began removing weapons from a different drawer, laying them on his desk. The two handguns were pretty standard, but Feyre’s eyes widened at just how many knives he had. Lucien began sorting them into piles of sharp and dull. “If you’ve forgotten, I have a few prices on my head.” He tapped his chest, where Feyre knew the tattoo was inked. “There’s the one so graciously granted by my family, but also a couple floating around Interpol for being associated with the mafia. My personal favourite is from the the United States.” Lucien winked at Feyre, and she didn’t know wether to be amused or appalled that he was joking about being classified as a criminal. “When I was sixteen I went there on behalf of Eris to some run street races and made quite the name for myself. I thought it was great; obviously the FBI didn’t agree.”

“You ran street racing in the US?” Feyre had a tough time wrapping her head around that; Lucien turned green whenever someone drove too quickly or turned too sharply. He’d be the last person she’d expect to enjoy spending time around souped up sports cars.

Lucien smirked at her. “That was the only thing I enjoyed doing for the mafia, even though I wouldn’t touch those cars with a ten-foot pole. No murders, enough money changing hands that no one noticed when I pinched a little extra so I could eat, and I was _really fucking good_ at the hustle.” He grabbed the passports from Feyre’s hands, flipping through them. “Now that you’ve brought it up, Morocco might be the better choice. They’ve got no extradition.” Then he went back to sharpening his knives.

“So that’s it, huh?” Feyre knew she was being irrational, that she really had no right to be angry when he was just trying to protect himself, but _damn it_ Lucien was one of her closest friends and he was leaving. “You’re going to run off, disappear, and leave the rest of us?”

“For fuck’s sake, Feyre, I’m a fucking _criminal._ ” Lucien spun to face her, his ire made clear in his voice. The knife he’d been holding fell to the table with a _clink_. “It may not have sunk in, but I was born into and raised as part of the Vanserra mafia. I tried _so_ _fucking hard_ to stay out of it, but spending eighteen years playing angel with the devils will still land you on every blacklist out there. The only reason I’m not in a Prythian prison is because Tamlin pulled enough strings to grant me a conditional pardon. The second I step out of this facility unemployed is when the wolves descend.”

 _Fair enough,_ thought Feyre, but the anger and incredulity still licked at her throat. “And what about me? What about Rhys and Rose? You’re leaving everyone who cares about you in the dust. You were my first friend here and showed me the ropes. You were an ass, you still are, but you’re my friend and I’m not letting you slip away in the night. And Rhys _trusted_ you, offered you a job when Tamlin ruined your chances with every other court, and you pay him back like this. He put his own position on the line for you, and you won’t even hand in an official resignation.”

“It was a contract-” interrupted Lucien, but Feyre angrily held up a hand.

“ _Fuck_ the contract. You’re also leaving Rose, and I bet she doesn’t have a clue.” Lucien winced, confirming Feyre’s suspicions. “That’s real shitty of you, Lucien. You’re going to break her heart, and she won’t even know why.”

A look of deep shame settled across his sharp features, and Feyre felt her anger melt. “We’re your friends, Lucien. Your family. All you have to do is ask for help.”

Lucien buried his face in his hands, but Feyre knew better than to think he was crying. There were a few minutes of still, still silence before it broke.

“I’m scared, Feyre. The last time I ran, all my emotions had shut down and I was on autopilot. But now that I’ve had time to think about it and plan… I’m fucking terrified.” He looked at her through his fingers, and Feyre could see the fear in his russet eye. She was suddenly struck by how young they were- neither of them were over the age of twenty-five.

Pushing aside the discomfort of intimacy, Feyre crossed over to where Lucien had slumped against the wall and gently wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Lucien let himself be held but didn’t hug back, and Feyre was alright with that. The fact that prickly, damaged, and occasionally-bitchy Lucien was accepting her comfort was enough. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she said, ever so softly.

Feyre felt more than heard him sigh, the warm breath ruffling her hair and his rib cage expanding then contracting in her embrace. “No fucking contract has spontaneously materialized, so I still have to leave.” But Lucien’s words lacked their usual bite, and Feyre just hugged him harder.

* * *

 

When Lucien woke, it was to a fully-dark room and his phone’s alarm. Wasting no time and sparing no thought, he hastily went through the morning’s motions before throwing on his travelling clothes. He made the bed, ensured all his extra belongings were neatly arranged in clear view, and gave the mirror one last wipe down.

He checked the time on his phone: _4:17 AM._ Still on-time for his flight.

Lucien grabbed his bag and surveyed the empty guest room he’d been lent. Everything was in perfect order, except for an unopened envelope on the desk. Lucien frowned; he was sure he had cleaned off all the papers the night before.

He set down his bag by the door before opening the envelope, taking out the two pieces of paper folded inside. The first was printed on official Night court letterhead, and Lucien began to read.

 _To whom it may concern,  
_ _With the appointment to the position of Emissary of the Night court, official chambers have been made available. Enclosed in this envelope is the key-card to Rm 831, located in the Velaris residency hall. Please be aware that no explosives of any kind are allowed in…_

Lucien dropped the letter, watching it flutter to the ground in disbelief. Half of him was inclined to believe that he’d descended directly to the ninth circle of Hell for his sins, and that having all he’d wanted dangled in front of him would be his eternal punishment. The other half of him forced his hands to unfold the second letter.

Lucien Vanserra,  
It is with my deepest regrets that I extend to you the position of Emissary of the Night court. Your skills are sadly needed, and your role in past missions has made you an asset. Please don’t use this appointment as an excuse to continue insulting my colleagues. We’ll meet tomorrow to sign your contract and again sometime within the next week to discuss your pay.  
_Sincerely, Rhysand of the Night Court  
_ P.S. Apologies for the lateness of this letter; Mor decided to change the access codes for all the printers and conveniently forgot to mention it.

A stuttering breath exploded from his lungs, and Lucien sank to his knees on the floor. His brain ground to a shuddering halt, and the world seemed to narrow to that once piece of paper in his grasp.

With his bag long forgotten by the door and the letter held firmly in his hands, Lucien began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the POV change in section 4; Rhys kind of took over and I didn't have the heart to re-write it, though it is a pretty big mistake. I kind of liked the way it worked out; hopefully the switch was subtle enough not to be jarring. I think the Tamlin section is even worse with POV flips...  
> In my headcanon, especially being from the mafia and all, Lucien is a little less.. refined. Definitely rougher around the edges, and I try to show that without going over-board. Not sure if it's working... heh  
> Pls Note that basically none of what happened in this chapter is in any way, shape, or form, healthy. Don't be Lucien and shove things under the carpet. Talk to someone, find help, go for a walk.  
> I hope after reading this you're still able to enjoy your day! And please, kudos make me sing from joy, and comments/requests get me writing! Anything you want, I shall deliver!


	6. Come to the Dark Side, We Have Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre has her first brush with the head of Night and can't decide if she wants to smother him or screw him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but it's nice and light! A guest asked for Feyre and Rhys meeting for the first time, and this is it. I apparently can't write things that don't contain Lucien, so he makes a rather large cameo appearance in this. I painted Rhys as an asshole, but that's what he came off as before Feyre really knew him, and that's when this takes place. 
> 
> And so, without further ado, the chapter! Enjoy!

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, and Feyre groaned as it struck her closed eyelids. The sun was particularly harsh this morning, though on Feyre’s part that was just an educated guess. She was usually up before the sun was high enough to-

_Oh, shit. Shit, fuck, damn it._

Feyre sprang out of bed, a litany of unspeakable curses cycling through her brain. She didn’t bother to check her phone for the time- all she knew was that she was late, and that was all she needed to know. First thing every morning was her marksmanship course with Lucien, and that red menace was infamous for his punctuality. When dealing with him late was late, and whether it was by ten minutes or ten seconds didn’t matter. Gods, Feyre was going to get an earful.

She skipped the shower, brushing her teeth and wrangling her hair into something semi-presentable in record time. Yesterday’s bra was worn again (boob sweat was a later-problem she would deal with), and precious time was wasted sourcing a fresh shirt and pants. Screw socks; her feet would survive one day without them.

Feyre was halfway down the residency halls before she realized she’d left her handgun in her rooms.

_Fuck._

* * *

 

Taking the hallway where Tamlin’s office was located was always risky, but after a glance at the time Feyre decided the risk would be worth it. The shortcut would shave off a couple minutes of running through the more crowded halls.

Feyre’s shoes clicked quietly against the hardwood flooring, and she tried desperately to soften her footfalls. She had learned very quickly that Tamlin disliked when people used this hallway for anything other than meeting him in his office. That was not an experience she was eager to repeat.

His office was centered in the hallway, with the entrance protruding from the walls. A chair had been added ( _f_ _inally_ ), and it was tucked away in the alcove beside the door, out of sight and out of mind. As Feyre walked by, she heard two male voices. One was easily recognizable as Tamlin’s, but the other belonged to a stranger. The door was open a crack, and she couldn’t resist stopping to look. She was already so late for her class that a few more minutes wouldn’t make much difference.

Looking directly into the crack gave her an excellent view of Tamlin’s oversized desk and put her into his line of sight. Feyre shifted to the side, and she saw a different man with dark skin and black hair. His profile was regal; Feyre imagined that she could cut herself on his cheekbones, and _damn_ , what a jawline.

“-you must see that it’s for the best, Tamlin,” the man was saying. His voice was low and smooth, and it made her stomach flip. “Feyre’s growth will be stunted if she stays in Spring. Her skills are shaping up nicely, but her true potential remains buried. If the Night court finishes her training, she could very well become one of Prythian’s best assets.”

“She’s my recruit, and your filthy court isn’t going anywhere near her.” Feyre could hear Tamlin’s infamous temper creeping into his voice, and she pursed her lips. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Feyre is not an object,” said the man, still calm and collected but with steel in his words. “She’s not yours to order around and keep locked in Spring.”

“Watch how you speak while you’re in my court…” said Tamlin, but Feyre had stopped listening. The stranger had turned his head and was staring right at her. His eyes were blue, Feyre noted, so blue that they were violet in colour. Dark hair, dark skin, violet eyes, and possibly the most beautiful face she’d ever seen all graced this vision of a man.

Most of the people she’d come in contact with at the Courts could potentially become models. They were all ‘beautiful’, though in different senses of the word. Tamlin was more handsome than beautiful, and had a rugged, chiseled quality to his features. Lucien had a sharp, wild beauty to him, all long plains and cutting angles with a hint of something more feral in his graceful stride. This new man was what she would call classically beautiful, and the very definition of ‘dark and mysterious.’ His piercing gaze made Feyre shiver, some animal instinct inside her prodding her to flee. He was relaxed in his chair, the lines of his body agile as a panther and just as ready to spring, should the need arise.

Suddenly a long-fingered hand clamped firmly over Feyre’s mouth and she jumped, biting back a scream. “So this is where you’ve been, hm?” whispered Lucien, directly into Feyre’s ear. “Instead of coming to class, you’re spying on my boss.”

Feyre wanted to shove her elbow into his gut, but that would make too much noise. Instead, she (quietly) ripped his hand off her mouth and whirled to face him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “They’re talking about me, so shut up and let me listen.”

“No,” said Lucien. “We’ll be in so much trouble if Tam sees us here. I know what they’re talking about, so come away and I’ll tell you later-”

“ _What_?” hissed Feyre, and Lucien made a frantic shushing gesture. Feyre nervously glanced at the door before continuing in a harsh whisper. “You _knew_ Night court was trying to recruit me, and you didn’t say anything? The hell kind of a friend _are_ you?”

The redhead winced, but before he could say anything, the door began to creak open. Lucien hastily stepped in front of Feyre and was met with a thoroughly pissed-off Tamlin. Usually she’d object to being coddled and protected, but Feyre did not envy him bearing the brunt of this one.

“Lucien, what are you doing with Feyre outside my office? I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

“I wasn’t aware of a meeting, sir. It’s not in your schedule. I just needed some files for later, and we happened to be passing by on our way to Winter’s firing range.” Feyre knew from experience that Lucien’s lies were an expert blend of truth and not-quite-truth, but the last part of this one fell a little short of his usual mark. There was no real reason for her to be going to Winter; Feyre had only been there once, and it was during the grand tour.

Tamlin’s green eyes narrowed a little, eyeing his student and employee. Tamlin may be an egotistical asshole, but he wasn’t stupid. There was little reason for them to be going to Winter. “Our range isn’t good enough for you?”

Lucien tensed, and Feyre had the distinct feeling that he was trapped; whatever he said would land him in deep shit with Tamlin.

Ever one to think ahead, Feyre blurted, “It was my idea.” All eyes turned to her, green, russet, and gold, and Feyre’s mind whirred. Coming up with a plausible lie on the spot was not something she enjoyed doing, though she’d had lots of practice since coming to the facility. “I wanted to practice somewhere else to… get used to shooting in different situations. Hopefully I’ll need that dexterity for future missions.” She offered a tight-lipped smile.

“Feyre’s right,” said the new man, and Tamlin actually _stepped aside_ to let him through. “A change in scenery is good, especially with the décor you’ve got, Tamlin. Must be very mentally draining to have to stare at the same wallpaper wherever you go.”

Tamlin seethed. “I like it,” he said, and took a menacing step towards the other man.

Lucien loudly kissed his teeth, the rude noise drawing the two men’s gazes and putting an end to their posturing. “Feyre and I are leaving now,” he said, gently pushing Feyre down the hall. “We’ve a lesson to finish.”

“Alright, foxboy. Enjoy your _lesson_.” The dark man cast a suggestive look in their direction, and Feyre’s stomach turned over at the thought. Not that Lucien was unappealing in that way -quite the opposite, in fact- but Feyre had one rule she’d never broken during her entire existence: friends don’t fuck friends unless both parties are exceedingly drunk. And the very idea seemed to ignite an anger in Tamlin unlike anything she’d yet seen.

Tamlin’s clenched fists tightened, and Feyre heard the pencil he was holding snap. “ _Lucien…”_

To his credit, Lucien didn’t hurt anyone or beg for mercy. He just put his hands together under his chin, closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, like he was praying for patience. When his eyes opened, the emotions Feyre knew were swirling through him had been veiled. “Tamlin,” he said, the perfect picture of serenity. “Don’t listen to him. Rhys is a dick.”

 _Rhys._ A rather sweet name for someone who smiled like the Devil himself. “I’m sorry, did I touch a nerve?” A slick smirk directed at Tamlin. “I wasn’t aware that your second fucking your favourite student was a valid concern.”

Tamlin growled, and the calm that Lucien had oh-so-carefully summoned evaporated. His usual fire burned through it in a second, and the redhead was snarling at Rhys. “Your sense of humour is _shit_ , and no one else thinks your mind games are funny. You know _nothing_ , Rhysand. So back the fuck away, fuck off, and _fuck you._ ”

Lucien whirled on his heel and stalked away. Before he was out of earshot, Rhys said to Tamlin, “He’s got quite the filthy mouth. You should have trained him better.” Tamlin merely gave him an angry look before returning to his office, slamming the door so hard that it shook on its hinges. In the same moment, without turning around, Lucien stuck up his middle finger in their general direction. Feyre could see his other hand expertly flipping his small knife. Usually surrounded by books, paperwork and other diplomats, she often forgot that Lucien was, in his own right, quite dangerous.

Rhys gave a low whistle. “Sorry about that,” he said to Feyre, not sounding sorry at all. “I think I just made the next hour of your life unbearable.”

“That was a shitty thing to do,” said Feyre, nodding at Lucien’s retreating form. She had a feeling that the next time she saw him, hours later, he’d be sporting a fresh bruise.

Rhys merely shrugged. “He’ll survive.”

Feyre’s lip curled in distaste. The way things were shaping up, Rhysand seemed to be all outer beauty and inner rot. Not her favourite kind of person. "You can go to hell."

"Already well on my way," said Rhys smoothly, and Feyre glared at him. She made to leave, but Rhys gently caught her elbow. “When can I expect you to join the Night court?”

Feyre shook him off with thinly veiled annoyance, and he merely arched an eyebrow. “I don’t even _know_ you.”

He smiled at her and dipped into a low bow, oily slickness coating his every word and gesture. “Rhysand, head of Night court, at your service.” His head was about level with her chest, and Rhys eyed her before winking. Feyre could see the black curl of a tattoo creeping up the back of his neck.

“If that’s your way of trying to get into my pants, it’s not working. I only have sex with people who aren’t complete assholes.”

“Oh, you want to have sex with me?”

Feyre grit her teeth. “Fuck you.” _Damn it_ , she was starting to sound like Lucien _._

Rhys grinned at her, tipping his head in a way that was irritatingly seductive. “Hmm. Any other day and I would gladly take your offer, but I have business. Maybe when you come to Night.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes and chewed on her lip. “I’ll think on your proposition.” She wasn’t sure if she was referring to the training or the sex, and had no intention of sorting through that now. From the look on Rhys’ face, he’d certainly figured out what she’d been talking about.

“Oh, Feyre darling. I think you’ve already made up your mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. This is shorter than I thought it was, definitely much less than my usual 4000+ word count. But hey, I think this is the first chapter where Rose hasn't shown or been brought up! As per usual, kudos make my day (honestly you have no idea how happy I become), and comments make my week! PLEASE send requests, or the plot bunnies will run out of food. I write practically anything, but draw the line at poetry. You do not want to read my poetry. XD Anyways, have a nice day!


	7. Cute and Fuzzy Little Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can judge a man's true character by the way he treats his fellow animals." -Sir Paul McCartney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHHHH JEEZ writing this was a pain in the behind. Well, I really like parts of this, and I really don't like others, but here it is anyways. This was a request by a friend of mine, so enjoy, Friend! I really hope no one's too OOC in this. 
> 
> Oh dear. I hope this goes over well. *tentatively while hiding behind a pillow* Enjoy!

Feyre was just finishing up her walk around the agency’s grounds when she heard frantic, incessant chirping. Slightly concerned about what could cause a creature to make so much noise, Feyre tracked the chirps around a corner to the back of the gardener’s shed.

And there, fallen into a deep metal trough, was a tiny fledgling robin.

Feyre’s heart went out to the small bird, stuck in a cage and unable to escape, and without thinking she reached down into the empty trough to free it.

“ _Stop!_ ” shouted someone from behind her. Feyre whipped around, heart hammering in her chest, to see Cassian striding quickly towards her. In his hands were a pair of work gloves and an old, ratty towel.

Feyre gestured at the trough. “There’s a bird stuck there- I’m trying to get it out.”

Cassian nodded, his wavy black hair bouncing around his chin. “I saw him a few minutes ago and went to get these,” he said, tossing the thick gloves to Feyre. “The little guy is frightened, so he’ll nip at your fingers if you grab for him.”

Feyre pulled on the gloves. “Is rescuing birds something you do often?”

“Nope, but I’m an expert,” said Cassian. “I googled the safest way to do this a minute ago, so it’s all fresh in my mind.”

“Dear lord.”

Cassian ignored her in favour of giving orders. “I’m going to drop the towel on him, and you scoop him out then pass him to me. Sound good?” Feyre nodded and bent over the trough, ready to pick up the little robin.

The towel fluttered on top of the fledgling, and its chirping turned to a high-pitched shriek. Wincing at the painful sound, Feyre carefully stuffed her gloves hands under the fluttering towel-lump and lifted it from the trough. She moved quickly, transferring the swaddled bird into Cassian’s waiting hands.

The military liaison gently arranged the towel around the bird so it was sitting in a soft nest with only its head peeking out. Feyre inwardly marvelled at how tender Cassian was, his great scarred hands cradling the fragile creature in their grasp.

The little robin instantly quieted down, settling into Cassian’s palms and blinking up at the hazel-eyed soldier. “I saw his parents squawking around in those trees over there,” he said, pointing his chin at a small copse of maples across the lawn. “He’s not hurt, so I’ll just set him on the grass.”

Cassian walked away, keeping the fledgling close to his chest and murmuring to it as he approached the trees. Feyre watched as he crouched beneath the leafy boughs, unwrapping the towel and letting the bird hop free. “Bye, buster,” said Cassian, and the baby robin chirped in response as he walked away.

Upon his approach, Feyre raised an eyebrow in his direction. “What a heartwarming goodbye with ‘buster’,” teased Feyre, and Cassian straightened his shirt while running a hand through his thick hair.

“Buster deserved the best. It’s a good thing I’m so confident in my masculinity,” he said, throwing her a roguish wink.

Feyre just rolled her eyes. “I’m going to tell Rhys and Az about what a softie you are.” Then she walked away, smiling to herself at Cassian’s innate gentility.

“Hey, they’re going to start rumours! I have a reputation to keep, you know!”

* * *

 

Azriel casually strolled into the pet shop, the fish-shaped whindchimes clanging as the door shut behind him. He gave the shop a cursory once-over, noting the stacks of bird cages for sale, pet food, and all the nooks and crannies one could exploit. Then he began to inspect the aquariums, for all the world looking as if he were just an ordinary man interested in raising some tropical fish.

Yes, Beron had chosen well. The pet shop was a perfect place to store drugs before they were distributed to dealers. Well-maintained, loud with the sounds of animals, and sure to attract plenty people, the shop was exactly opposite what the police had been searching for when they contacted the Night court for assistance in tracking and exposing the Vanserra drug dens. Azriel had sent some whispers down the grapevine, flexed a few muscles in front of the right people, and now he was here with a CCTV van filled with police just down the street, ready to bust Beron’s drug-dealing ass. But before he could send them in, the spymaster just needed the middleman’s accounts-book. A quick rifle through the back should do, followed by corrupting the security tape and voila, all wrapped up in time for dinner-

The door to the back room suddenly banged open, and Azriel looked over to see a tawny-haired boy stretch over the counter and ring the desk bell.

“Heyo!” called the boy, waving a small hand at Azriel from across the shop. “Our special today is…” the kid paused, stepping up on a stool for the extra height needed to read a sticky-note on the register. “Buy one get one half-price for the green bags of birdseed!”

Azriel nodded in acknowledgment and went back to browsing aquariums. On the outside he was calm, but a low boil of frosty rage had started in his stomach.

Because _by the gods,_ that was a _child_. The little blonde boy couldn’t have been older than nine, and Beron had chosen his family’s shop to set up a fucking drug den. If Az ever needed more proof that the Vanserra Don was a despicable bastard, this was it.

He sighed through his nose before making his way to the counter. “Hey, kid,” he said, not ungently, and the boy looked up at him. “Can I speak to your parents?”

A single glance was all the attention Azriel got before the the boy went back to petting a small gecko perched on his arm. “They’re not here; dad left and is never coming back, and mom’s in a meeting with the building owners. Today, I’m running the shop!” His thin chest puffed with pride as he pointed at himself.

Azriel had to hide a smile at the boy’s antics, though he did feel a measure of pity for him. Of course Beron would take advantage of a single mother trying to run a small business while raising a son. Using the pet shop as a front to store and distribute drugs would definitely pay the rent and feed the kid. Unfortunately, it also meant that people like Azriel would be stopping by- and not to buy pet food.

Azriel leaned his elbows on the counter so he was more or less eye-level with the kid. “I’m the store’s new accountant. Since your mom isn’t here, could you grab her accounts book for me? I just need to take a look.”

The kid looked at him with confused grey eyes, and Azriel could practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Oh!” said the boy, and he scrambled off his stool, gecko still firmly attached to his arm. “The money-book! Sure thing, mister!”

A moment later and he returned, handing Azriel a beaten moleskine notebook. The spymaster did a cursory scan of some of the pages, ensuring he had what he needed. _Good._ Every transaction with the Vanserra mafia was written in the book with blue pen, compared to the store’s regular purchases written in black. It was a rookie thing to do, thought Azriel, but the desperate inexperienced ones always made his job easier.

Though what came next, especially with the kid here… Azriel took a deep breath, going through his pockets for change. He dropped a handful of quarters on the desk. “You’ve done a good job minding the shop. Why don’t you take a break and get yourself some ice cream from down the road?”

The boy idly stroked a finger down his gecko’s back, warily eyeing the change and Azriel. “Mom said I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, and to kick them and run if they offer me sweets.”

Huh. Okay, so the kid was not as gullible as he’d expected.

“I’m Mr. Az,” said Azriel, and _really_ hoped that Cassian never found out he’d said that. _Mr. Az_ would haunt him for the rest of his life. “What’s your name?”

“Daniel,” said the boy, then he shoved his arm with the gecko right into Azriel’s face. “And this is Terminator.” Azriel just blinked at the little reptile, and it cocked its head before licking its eyeball.

“Hello Daniel, Terminator,” said Azriel, giving the the blond boy’s proffered arm (the one with Terminator) a small shake. “Now that we know each other, you can get that ice cream. My treat.”

Indecision warred in Daniel’s grey eyes, but when Azriel added one more quarter to the pile the boy scooped them off the counter and into his pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Az!” chirped Daniel as he walked around from behind the counter. Then he peeled Terminator off his arm and stuck it to Azriel’s abdomen. “Hold my gecko.”

Daniel skipped out the door, change jangling in his pocket, and the spymaster stared at the tiny lizard climbing up his chest. Azriel gently gripped the gecko around the middle, taking only a moment to be surprised at how soft it was before trying to pry it off. But the little sucker seemed to have glue on its feet because as much as Az pulled and tugged, Terminator would not budge an inch. Azriel sighed before letting go, vowing to himself that _no one_ would ever know he had lost a battle to a little boy’s gecko.

“Alright,” said Az, addressing Terminator. “Guess you’re stuck with me while I call in the cavalry.”

One radio call later had a good portion of the CCTV van rooting through the back of the shop while Azriel and Terminator supervised.

“Hey, sir,” called one of the men from the back. “There’s a shit-ton of cocaine back here. Do you want us to confiscate all of it, or leave some as evidence?”

“Take it all,” said Azriel. “I’ve got the log book with all the information, which should be more than enough to get this place shut down and trace it back to Beron.” He looked down at the gecko, now settled comfortably on his pectoral, and some guilt chased through him at the thought of little Daniel losing both his shop and his mom. Almost like it could read his mind, the lizard looked at him and licked its eye again. Azriel gave the gecko a tentative pat on its tiny head, stroking down its back like he’d seen Daniel do. “Sorry I have to do this,” he said to it, “But no matter how unsavoury, it’s my job.”

To the police in the back, he said, “Wrap it up, we’ll have company soon!” Daniel would be due back from the ice cream shop any minute.

Just in time too, it turned out, as Daniel strolled into the pet store seconds after the last of the coke had been cleared out. The blonde boy was smiling without a care in the world, a thin film of what looked like mint ice cream staining his lips. Azriel felt the guilt sink in a little deeper. As soon as Daniel’s mother came back she’d be arrested for possession and distribution of drugs and aiding the mafia. Daniel would turn to him, betrayal on his young face, and the empty hole in Azriel’s chest would yawn a little wider and darker. All the information he collected, every bust he organized; it was all for the greater good and must be done, but Azriel always quietly mourned for the innocents whose lives were torn asunder in the wake of justice.

“Thanks for holding down the fort, Mr. Az!” said Daniel, and Azriel let a hint of a smile poke through. “Mint ice cream is my absolute favourite! I tried to feed it to Terminator once when I was littler, but mom said it would hurt him. I’d never want to hurt Terminator, he’s my best friend! Did you know that geckos don’t have eyelids? That’s why he keeps licking his eyeballs-” The spymaster blinked at the sudden torrent of words from the boy’s mouth.

“When is your mom going to be back, Daniel?” Azriel asked. Daniel stopped talking, taking a moment to pause and think.

“Soon,” was all he said, then reached up Azriel’s chest to retrieve his gecko. But Terminator really didn’t want to budge, as even Daniel’s knowledgeable coaxing couldn’t get the lizard to unstick.

“Well, I guess he really likes you,” said Daniel. Then, completely taking Azriel by surprise, the young boy took the spymaster’s burned hand and started dragging him behind the counter. “While you wait for my mom, I’m going to show you where Terminator lives! He’s got this tree in his tank, and a heat-light, and a small pond of water where he can sit and drink. I feed him every day, and he likes sitting on my shoulder sometimes, and…” Daniel chattered on, occasionally pausing to brush a tawny strand of hair from his eyes. Azriel stroked Terminator the way the young boy had just taught him, and the spymaster silently promised he’d personally ensure that no matter what happened, Daniel would be able to keep his gecko.

* * *

 

Feyre took a deep breath in and held it for a moment before exhaling, trying to calm herself. She wasn’t afraid to knock on Amren’s door, but she was definitely… apprehensive. No one was stupid enough to bother Amren when the Chinese woman was in a bad mood, Feyre included. But here she was, standing in the hall in front of Amren’s suite, bearing gifts to beg for forgiveness.

She’d known that deciding to contact Amren’s past assassin colleagues in China without consulting the woman herself would come back to bite her in the ass, but it had to be done. Feyre didn’t regret any of it, not with the outcome she had received. But deception, no matter the reasoning, always left a bad taste in her mouth. So Feyre had gone to Rhys for advice on earning Amren’s forgiveness.

Feyre had been expecting to do some serious grovelling and end up owing Amren a great debt. Apparently, according to Rhys, all she needed was something expensive and shiny. Grovelling was sometimes necessary, depending on the day.

Feyre’s shopping trip for gems and jewels had not gone well. A quick check of her bank account had told Feyre than anything Amren would like was going to be out of her price range, and anything she could afford probably didn’t fit the bill. It was Mor who had given Feyre the alternative she now had with her: tropical fish.

In her hand was a small plastic container containing a german blue ram- the most colourful fish she could find in the aquarium store. Its entire body was a vibrant yellow-and-white, its fins tipped orange and splashed liberally with electric blue spots. The head of the fish also had similar blue patches, and it was barred black from nose to belly. Feyre had seen the tank of fish from across the store, and instantly knew that one of those would be for Amren.

But now, standing in front of the Asian assassin’s door with only a small fish and its fact sheet between her and her demise, Feyre was a little less sure.

 _Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained._ So she knocked on the door.

Amren threw the door open on the second knock, leaning against the door frame with a mildly irritated look on her face. “What do you want.”

“Um,” said Feyre, too busy looking over the short assassin’s head to say much more. Amren’s room was, for lack of a better word, _unique._ The walls were plain and undecorated, there was no carpeting, and Amren had two dressers with various jewels scattered on their tops. But what really took Feyre’s breath was not that the dividing wall between bedroom and living room had been removed (but  _seriously, what the hell, that wall was load-bearing_ ); it was the two massive fish tanks that were embedded in the outer walls.

Amren’s perfectly manicured nails tapped against the door. “If you’re just going to gape at my tanks, I have better things to do.” Then she shut the door-

-right on Feyre’s intentionally-placed foot. “Wait,” said Feyre, hiding her wince. _Damn,_ Amren slammed doors hard. “I’m sorry.”

The door slowly opened, revealing Amren cast in the blue light of the tanks. “You’re sorry.”

“Yes. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“You’re not sorry for what you did.”

A pregnant pause as Feyre considered. “... No. But you’re my friend, so I apologize for deceiving you.” Feyre handed Amren the german blue ram, and the shorter woman snatched both the fish and the fact sheet before closing the door in her face, slightly more gentle this time around.

There was the sound of water being poured into a bowl, and the clinking of glass on a countertop. Feyre could hear Amren muttering inside her suite, presumably to her fish. Then, so suddenly that Feyre jumped, Amren said, “If you’re still standing outside, you might as well come feed the fish.”

Translated from Amren-speak: _Apology accepted._

* * *

 

“Rhys?” called Feyre from the washroom. “Could you grab my towel for me, I left it on our bed.” Feyre shivered in the chill outside of the shower’s steam, idly tapping her foot against the cold tile. “Rhys?”

“Just a minute, Feyre. I’m sort of… occupied,” came Rhys’ voice from the sitting room. Feyre frowned. What on earth would have her boyfriend so wrapped up that he couldn’t pass her a towel?

Another minute passed before Feyre was driven from the bathroom by the cold. She padded into the bedroom, her wet hair dripping unpleasantly down her back. Snatching the fluffy white towel from where it was tossed on the duvet, Feyre quickly towelled off before vigorously drying her hair with it. She slung the now-damp towel over her shoulders to keep her hair off her skin, then sauntered to where Rhys was.

“Oh my gods.”

The beginnings of Feyre’s very steamy plan for revenge involving Rhys, the towel and her naked self completely evaporated at the sight that greeted her.

There was Rhys reading over reports while stretched out on the couch, a tiny calico kitten dozing contentedly on his chest. Even from the doorway Feyre could hear the kitten’s breathing, an adorable little purr accompanying every exhale.

“I think my heart just melted inside my chest,” said Feyre, and Rhys gave her a small smile.

“She’s Nuala and Cerridwen’s,” he said, nodding at the kitten. “I volunteered to cat-sit while they’re out for Azriel.”

“So that’s why you left me to freeze in the bathroom,” said Feyre, an arched eyebrow accompanying her wry grin.

“How cruel you are, Feyre, that you would want me to disturb this sleeping angel.” At that exact moment the kitten stretched, its little orange-and-black patched back arching. Tiny claws put equally tiny dents in Rhys’ soft t-shirt, and a pink tongue darted past adorable teeth to lick at its nose. The kitten’s tail flicked once, an amber eye opened then closed, and the calico returned to its napping.

Feyre wished she had her phone on her, because a picture of that would have been sent to the entire Inner Circle and would’ve become her new home screen.

Instead, she said, “Give me a minute to put something on, then I’ll join you in cuddling the cat.”

Rhys eyed her bare form, a wicked smile pulling at his lips. “That can be done nude. Well, that and _more_.”

“Prick,” Feyre muttered at him, carefully throwing the towel at his face so it wouldn’t hit the kitten. “I wouldn’t be so cruel as to disturb the sleeping angel.”

* * *

 

Feyre’s feet ached in their wedge-heeled shoes as she and Mor walked down the side of the town street. Sure, she loved spending time with Mor and going out was a convenient way to get out of the facility, but shopping for hours on end was a special kind of torture. It started out fun, with both women trying out clothes and gleefully peering through store-fronts, but as time wore on and the spree continued Feyre always felt that niggle of guilt eating at her for spending frivolously.

That guilt manifested physically in the number of bags she and Mor held- Feyre’s one to Mor’s four.

Mor had run out of conditioner, and had convinced Feyre into going with her to run the errand. Mor’s conditioner had been bought, along with a new accent bracelet for her coming conference, three kinds of lube (Feyre pointedly didn’t didn’t ask), and a set of lacy lingerie because _I work my ass off, so my ass might as well look good while doing it._

Feyre’s small bag contained only a strawberry-vanilla scented bath bomb, wrapped by the store clerk and purchased in anticipation for Elain’s upcoming birthday. She’d get her sister something else too, but the bath bomb’s soft, swirling pinks had caught her eye and the light floral scent practically screamed _Elain_.

So she’d bought it, and now the two women were making their way to the parking garage where Mor had left her car. And thank the gods for small mercies, because if they had visited one more store Feyre’s feet would have fallen off.

“These shoes are killing me,” grumbled Feyre, gesturing to the strappy, heeled wedges Mor had insisted Feyre buy on their last outing.

“Beauty is pain,” said Mor, throwing Feyre a grin. “Besides, your feet look great in them.”

“Well, my feet don’t _feel_ great in them,” said Feyre, turning to cast a shaded look in the blonde’s direction-

-only to find that Mor was gone.

 _What the fuck,_ thought Feyre, and she scanned the streets with a searching gaze. Mor was _just_ there. How the _hell_ do you lose an _entire person_?

Feyre turned around, scanning the path behind her and sighed in relief when she spotted Mor crouched by a bench. Feyre squinted, double checking that the golden curls did indeed belong to her friend. It was just to reassure herself that she had yet to stoop so low as to _actually_ lose an entire person.

As Feyre approached, what Mor was obsessing over became clear. There on the bench was seated an older woman holding a lit cigarette, obviously homeless, and Mor was cuddling and cooing over her tiny puppy.

“Feyre, look!” said Mor, animatedly scratching the small pup behind its ears. “She’s so cute!” The puppy barked before licking Mor’s hand, and the blonde woman actually _squealed._ Feyre grinned, and joined Mor in the petting. The small puppy barked some more, tiny tail wagging with excitement, and the homeless woman laughed.

“Her name’s Daisy,” said the woman, her voice scratchy from smoking. “I found her in a dumpster a few days ago, and she’s been following me ever since.” Feyre stroked a hand down Daisy’s thin back, and was able to feel every rib and knob of the puppy’s spine. “Probably because I give her scraps,” finished the woman, shrugging an equally bony shoulder.

“That’s kind of you,” Feyre said, giving the woman a small smile. “We’ll be right back.” She dragged Mor away from the puppy and around the corner before speaking again.

“Do you know where the nearest-” began Feyre, but Mor nodded solidly and dragged her off before she could finish.

One trip to a pet store (manned by a little boy with a gecko- Mor had instantly blanched and walked out, claiming that reptiles were after her soul), one trip to a grocer’s and twenty minutes later, Mor and Feyre returned to the woman and her puppy, their arms laden with goods.

The woman gaped at what they had brought, her mouth opening and closing but no words sounding. Feyre just smiled again at her and set down her bounty before giving Daisy an enthusiastic scratch behind the ears. Mor followed her example, saying, “This should last a few days. I also heard that the shelter was looking to hire people experienced with strays.”

The homeless woman put down her cigarette, looking at everything piled beside her on the bench- a loaf of bread, a bag of apples, a hunk of cheese, a bag of premium puppy kibble- and her eyes watered. She licked her chapped lips before picking up Daisy. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know how I can ever repay you-“

Mor held up a hand, halting the stumbling flow of words. “Go to the job interview and take care of Daisy. That’s all we ask.” And with one last pet on Daisy’s little head, Feyre and Mor walked away.

* * *

 

“Gods damn it,” hissed Feyre, angrily kicking at the pile of straw at her feet. This was the second time this had happened in the past hour; she’d left to grab her water bottle, and on her return Feyre watched as the pitchfork she’d leaned against the stall wall slipped and fell into a pile horse shit.

Well, at least the dung was mostly dry. Feyre picked up the pitchfork with a sigh, banging it against the front of the stall to shake off the dried bits. Scraping the handle took care of most of the wet dung that clung to the wood.

Horseback riding was not as glorious or romantic as the movies make it. The actual riding was rewarding, yes, but getting thrown hurt, getting stepped on hurt, she smelled when she was done, and the chores were damn tiring. But chores were the price that anyone using the stables had to pay, and if it meant she could go unwind on a trail ride after a long day of classes, she would gladly pay it.

But _fuck_ , did Feyre hate mucking stalls.

The creaking of the barn door interrupted her musings, and Feyre peeked around the edge of the stall to see who had walked in.

It was Lucien, wearing jodhpurs, a snug t-shirt and riding boots. A helmet dangled from one hand, and no crop was in sight.

Feyre pursed her lips, contemplating if she actually wanted to greet him or not. Her transfer to the Night court a week ago had been… messy, to say the least, and their friendship was one of the things that had suffered in the transition. Feyre knew they should clear the air sooner rather than later, but that would involve some hissing and spitting and the stables were a small slice of peace that she wanted to preserve.

Hiding and eavesdropping it was, then.

Feyre gently eased the pitch fork against the wall, leaning it in the corner so it would have nowhere to fall. Then she moved to the front of the stall, standing in the frame furthest from where Lucien was. He was approaching the stall opposite her, so she had a decent view to watch him from.

Lucien tied his hair into a bun at the base of his neck before hanging his helmet on the peg outside the stall, right on top of the horse’s own bridle. He pushed open the stall door and slipped inside, softly murmuring to the horse within.

“Hey, girl,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. Lucien laid a broad, long-fingered hand on the horse’s withers, patting her before giving her a good scratch. The mare stretched her neck in pleasure, and Feyre had to smile when her top lip started flapping.

Lucien chuckled, scratching there for a moment longer before stretching up to scratch behind her ears. _Fucking hell_ , thought Feyre. If Lucien was struggling to reach her head, then the horse must be at least sixteen hands tall. That was one big mare.

But the redhead had the large horse reduced to a teddy-bear, evidenced by her shiver of delight and arching her neck to return the ‘helpful’ scratches. The mare only got one good nibble by his ear before he gently pushed her nose away. He stroked the velvety skin there before ducking out of the stall, grabbing her halter and slipping it on in one fluid motion before clipping on her lead.

As Lucien led the mare out of the stall and into the better lighting of the aisle, Feyre got her first good look at the horse. What she had initially taken to be bay was in fact a stunning liver chestnut. The mare’s coat was a rich chocolate brown, and Feyre could see brighter red highlights on the ribcage and the flexing hindquarters. The ends of her mane and tail were the same shining red, a similar shade to Lucien’s own hair colour. Feyre couldn’t help but think the pair of them were stunning together, both horse and human coloured darkly with red highlights. As if scenting her thoughts, the mare whinnied and tossed her head, lifting her feet higher as she walked.

“Well,” said Lucien, noting the change in the horse’s step, “Someone certainly feels like a princess today.” He clipped the horse into the crossties before retrieving the mare’s grooming kit from a ledge outside her stall. The redheaded man began to use the curry comb, pushing its rubber nubs in circles along her side. The horse huffed in contentment, and his lips tugged upwards.

“Alright, Ziggy,” said Lucien, finishing the currying before switching to a softer body brush, and Feyre had to stifle a laugh. Who the hell named their horse Ziggy, other than a six year old? “I finally got my hands on all your papers, and it turns out that you’re a 16.3hh Irish Sport Horse and an eventer. We’ll get you back to jumping and dancing in no time.” Lucien sighed, a tight look crossing his face as he paused his grooming to stroke a gentle hand down Ziggy’s nose. “I hope those bastards who dared touch you burn in hell.”

The words made Feyre’s gut turn over at their implication. She squinted from her spot tucked in the stall, eyeing Ziggy’s coat. There; along the mare’s wither’s were old, scarred over saddle sores, where improper care had caused the saddle to rub the area raw. Feyre could also make out healed whip lashes along the horse’s hindquarters, the hair had grown in white over the scars.

She could feel her cheeks heating with indignation, and clenched her hands into fists. What despicable human would ever hurt another creature? Gentle, hard working giants such as Ziggy didn’t deserve to be beaten. _No animal_ deserved to be beaten.

Lucien finished the grooming, dropping the brush into the kit with a dull _thunk._ He crossed to Ziggy’s head, stroking her nose again before tucking himself into her neck, his arms wrapped around loosely in a hug. His fingers buried themselves in the mare’s coarse mane as he breathed in, and Feyre could practically smell the thick, musky scent of horse Lucien had just inhaled.

“Me and you, Ziggy- we’re the same,” Feyre heard him say as Lucien turned his nose into the mare’s neck, the light catching his face _just so_. A bruise was there on his jaw, peeking out from under a smudged layer of concealer. “It’s why we understand each other; I know why you spook when someone has a crop, you let me lean on you when I need a reminder that not everyone leaves angry bruises. I’m going to help you canter and jump and trust again.” Another deep breath, shakier than the last. Feyre saw his hands tighten in Ziggy’s burnished red mane. “And you’ll help me too, you know. You’ll teach me to stand taller and bite back and stop hiding my scars.” Ziggy blew a breath across Lucien’s shoulders, his shirt catching the rush of warm air. The tall mare then tucked her fine chestnut head across the redhead’s back, pushing him against her neck in some semblance of a returned hug.

Feyre’s heart clenched painfully in her chest, crushing the small seed of guilt at witnessing what was truly a private moment. The emissary’s carefully crafted mask of charm and snark had been cast aside to reveal a young man trying oh-so-desperately to heal, to love and be loved. Lucien opened his heart to so few, and Feyre knew that he’d never speak any of what was just said to her. Especially not now, with their friendship on the rocks.

Ziggy snorted and began chewing at Lucien’s hair, prompting a yelp of surprise from him and effectively ending the moment. Feyre smirked a little at seeing Lucien wrestle a temperamental 600kg horse for possession of his hair. She had to bite her knuckle when he undid the bun to wipe the slobber from the glistening red ends, muttering about Rose’s obsession with his hair and how that had no right to transfer to horses.

Lucien tapped Ziggy on the forehead before settling a saddle pad over her back. “If you eat my hair again, I’ll start eating your tail. See how you like it.” With that he strode to the tack room, completely relaxed and _whistling._

To Feyre’s knowledge, Lucien Vanserra never did something so cheery as whistling while walking. Hell had truly frozen over.

Leather creaked in the tack room, followed by some shuffling and a frustrated: “Damn it! Why does some bastard _always_ take the _only_ fucking saddle that fucking fits?”

 _Ah, and so the cursing begins._ Feyre mentally amended her previous statement; it was still a nice, toasty day in hell, with a forecast of fire-storms at three o’clock.

Lucien stomped out of the tack room considerably grumpier than he’d gone in, carrying what seemed like a perfectly functional English saddle. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as he tacked up, flaying the saddle with his gaze. “The pommel on this abomination is fucking high. I’m going to end up smashing my balls every jump.” Lucien tightened the girth, sticking two long fingers between the leather strap and Ziggy to make sure it was snug yet not overly tight. A quick pat to her solid neck, and Lucien bridled the mare and led her down the aisle, grabbing his helmet as they passed her stall.

Feyre leaned out of her half-mucked stall to watch him mount. Lucien gracefully swung his lean form into the saddle, giving Ziggy a reassuring rub when the mare took a nervous step. “It’s fine, princess,” he murmured, calming the mare. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just some cantering and small jumps today, nothing you can’t handle.” Ziggy shifted her weight, and Feyre could see the horse relax some. Lucien’s mouth flicked up in a smile, and he continued to talk in the same low, soothing tone. “Your high-as-hell thoroughbred withers are really going to rid me of any future children, though.” A touch of his heels, some leg, and Ziggy was off, a slow and floaty trot taking the gorgeous liver-chestnut mare and her red haired rider to the ring.

Feyre watched the sun flash living flame off of Ziggy’s coat, Lucien’s hair mirroring the light show as they went over a jump. Dark skinned hands on dark leather reins guided a dark chestnut horse, and Feyre could feel the image sear itself into her mind. This was something she would definitely paint. Feyre would then anonymously hang it in the stables as a tribute to the unique and cherished bond between man and beast. Lovers are parted; fathers denounce sons; friends sunder friends; but Feyre felt that if Lucien gave her his trust and affection, Ziggy would return it all tenfold with every breath and without reservation.

Isn’t that something special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horseback rider, so I kind of went ham in the Lucien section, heh... whoops! A lot of this chapter was drawn from personal experience. I had to lift a tiny robin from a trough, my friend has a clingy gecko, some of the barn kittens are so cute and lazy, another friend is OBSESSED with tropical fish, Toronto has a lot of homeless that I work with, and one of my barn buddies has this one saddle which gets him in the nuts. Every time. I tried to pick characters that would offset/fit those scenarios. But, I have absolutely ZERO experience with police procedure, so all that coke stuff in Az's chunk I just pulled from thin air, heh.
> 
> I hope this chapter was adequate. Kudos make my day, comments make my week and give inspiration! Please keep submitting requests, though don't be worried if I don't write yours right away. I WILL write it, just after the one's I've received before. 
> 
> Enjoy your day!


	8. Ginger-Toddler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andras and Lucien meet for the first time, and things did not quite go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH this was so difficult to write for some reason. But here it is, and dedicated (again) to @BastardSonOfDay because it was their request! It's Andras+Lucien, and I tried to do a different take on them, without the romance. I hope it works.... 
> 
> This is basically near the VERY beginning of Lucien's time with Spring, so it'd be just after The Jes Incident which I slotted to be right after highschool. Which means foxboy is still a smol bean at the tender age of eighteen. Aww. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy the show!

Andras didn’t bother hiding his smirk at Lucien huffing for breath beside him. He’d set his pace a little faster than normal to test the greenie's limits. The kid had strolled up to Andras a couple days prior, his hands tucked into pockets, and casually told Andras that he’d be joining him on patrol. The redhead hadn’t even  _asked,_ he’d _told_ the scout. Sure, Andras had been informed by Tamlin before the student had shown up, but that was still a very confident approach for someone new who was not even training to be a soldier. And Lucien was paying for it, trying and failing to keep up with Andras’ punishing stride.

But he had grit, Andras decided. Even though the scout could hear him wheezing and stumbling, Lucien somehow managed to stay in Andras’ periphery.

The pair finally reached the first checkpoint, and Lucien immediately dropped his gear to walk in slow, hunched-over circles. Even Andras was breathing hard, but unlike his younger, cursing companion the soldier relished the burn in his muscles. He stretched out his calves before flicking on his comm to radio in.

“Wolf One to Alpha, we’ve reached the first checkpoint.” There was a moment of crackling static over the ear piece before Tamlin’s voice sounded clearly.

“Alpha to Wolf One; you’re ahead of schedule. How’s Lucien holding up?”

“Ginger-toddler, you mean? Yeah, I put him through his paces and now he can barely remember how to move his legs.” Andras knew that Lucien’s comm was on the same chanel and that he could hear everything being said, so it was no surprise when the student shot him a scathing look and the middle finger. Andras merely chuckled before giving him a thumbs up in return. “He’s throwing a fit now. Like I said: ginger-toddler.”

“That’s to be expected. Wring him dry by the time you’re done, he has too much energy. Now, I need you to go over these areas of interest…” Andras listened to his superior speak, taking mental notes of all the places Tamlin mentioned. They were all designated safe zones and checkpoints, the spots one after another and lined up before secure portions of the Wall. Nothing a greenie couldn’t handle. Andras looked over to his charge, still listening to Tamlin, and was pleased to note that Lucien seemed to be concentrating on the conversation.

When Tamlin was finished Andras switched off his comm and gestured for Lucien to come closer.

“Hey!” barked Andras, stopping the younger redhead in his tracks. He pointed at the ground behind Lucien. “Never leave your pack. Even if you’re just going to take a piss, your gear goes with you. The things in that bag are the only things between you and what’s beyond the Wall.”

Lucien winced and promptly retrieved his pack. “So,” he asked, rubbing his knee. “How long are we staying here for?”

Andras gave a small grin and removed his light helmet to run a hand through his short, sweaty brown hair. How the kid survived with long hair was beyond him. “Not long. In fact, we’re leaving now.”

A groan was the only response.

“What,” said Andras, “Already tired?”

“ _Already tired?_ We ran through dense forest for almost three hours. I am fucking _exhausted._ ”

Andras looked Lucien up and down. A sharp, fine-boned face, lanky limbs, scouting gear hung a little loose on his lean frame, helmet tipping on his head. Still a youth and not yet completely filled out. The soldier pursed his lips. “That’s a relatively easy fix. Every morning before your classes, run three laps around the facility grounds and every two weeks add another lap. When do your classes end?”

“At six every evening,” said Lucien, who raised an eyebrow at Andras’ impressed whistle. “I’ve condensed all my courses so I can finish training within two years.”

“Damn,” said Andras, “That’s tough, but it works out. You can fit in another hour or two at the gym before the staff clear the kitchen after dinner. With that routine you won’t have much of a social life, but it’ll pay off.”

The redhead shrugged. “Sounds like a fair trade. It’s not like anyone will be missing my company.”

Andras’ brow furrowed at that. He knew Lucien had been at the facility for only a handful of months and had already charmed half the staff in circles and had the other half convinced he was a demon. He was sailing through his classes with flying colours, participated in extracurriculars, and still managed to trail Tamlin like a puppy. Andras had assumed Lucien had fit friends somewhere in his schedule, but to each his own.

Andras began a light jog in the direction of the next checkpoint, and the rattling from Lucien’s pack as he followed behind made the soldier grimace. “If this were a live stealth mission, your noise would have gotten us both shot.”

A grunt of acknowledgement. “Apologies for never before having run while carrying twice my weight in metal equipment. I’d never realized that such a niche skill was common knowledge.” Andras rolled his eyes at the sarcastic response, but a moment later he could hear straps being tightened and the rattling quieted. It wasn’t gone, but it was better. That would do for now.

* * *

 

“Come on, Ginger-Toddler!” called Andras. “You’re lagging!” The soldier was leaned against a tree about a hundred meters away from the checkpoint, which was a squat, abandoned concrete building in the distance.  Andras kept half an eye on the empty building, but most of his attention was focused on Lucien.

Said redhead was valiantly slogging through the underbrush, his feet dragging and catching on various detris. His red hair was coming out of its careful braid, and his dark skin was flushed from exertion. By the time he reached Andras’ tree, the soldier had dropped his stoic facade and let the amusement leak through. Lucien was breathing heavily, his hands braced on his thighs as he aimed a fierce glare at Andras. Its effect was ruined when his light helmet slipped over his eyes and he had to push it back up. The resumed glare was even more more fierce, but the entire image only made Andras laugh. If the scout were being honest with himself, it was kind of cute.

“Fuck you,” spat Lucien, giving him the accompanying finger. “I am not a toddler.”

Andras wanted to pat the eighteen year old on the head, just to see what would happen, but many years of training and restraint quelled the childish urge. Instead he replied with an equally childish, “Sure you aren’t.”

Lucien opened his mouth to without a doubt deliver a scathing retort, but the spark in his eyes melted into confusion. “Are there supposed to be armed people walking out of the checkpoint?”

The words were barely out of the kid’s mouth before Andras was on top of Lucien, dragging him down behind the tree by his collar. “ _Shit,_ ” hissed Andras, more to himself than anything. “That is _really_ not supposed to fucking happen.”

It was a good thing that Lucien was so lithe, thought Andras. If he’d been an inch thicker, the tree which provided their only cover would have been useless.

The soldier carefully peered around the trunk. Coming out of the secure, abandoned building which served as one of the safest checkpoints on Prythian’s side of the Wall were two scouts. From a distance all Andras could determine was that their uniforms were definitely foreign, and that each carried an assault rifle.

“Alright,” he said, firmly addressing the wide-eyed youth in front of him. “I’m going to deal with them, and you stay here. Don’t move and don’t shoot unless your life depends on it.” Lucien nodded, offering no protest, and Andras watched as his sharp features settled into the familiar look of one who knows violence.

A brief, wane smile directed at his redheaded charge, then Andras slipped from behind the tree. He stayed low to the ground, using the undergrowth and the forest to provide as much cover as possible. At any other time Andras would have already radioed in his coordinates, called for some backup and a second team to do a wider sweep of the area. He was still going to do that, but after the immediate threat had been dealt with. Having two hostiles with live weapons near a kid with no combat experience was a recipe for disaster.

About ten meters away from where the two soldiers were talking, Andras ducked behind a wide tree and flicked the safety off his gun. He figured he had about three seconds after shooting the first soldier before the second shredded his tree with bullets.

Andras stepped out from the safety of the trunk with his gun already pointed at the first mercenary. He fired two shots, one after the other, and was moving before the body had hit the ground.

Just as Andras abandoned his cover, a hail of bullets thudded into the tree where he had been. Bits of bark and wood sprayed, and the scout dove for relative safety. The gunfire followed him, tearing into the new tree Andras was leaned against, and he could feel his teeth rattle.

_Dammit_ , he thought. That remaining soldier would soon retreat back into the building, which would ensure any further action Andras took be suicide. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ chanted his mind as he leaned around the trunk and into harm’s way.

A searing pain burned across the top of his shoulder, but Andras didn’t wait for his arm to give out before returning fire. He squeezed the trigger repeatedly, almost emptying the clip into the convulsing body of the last soldier.

Only when the echoes of gunfire had faded from the forest did Andras flick on the safety and holster his weapon. With shaking hands he touched the top of his shoulder, hissing as his fingers came away bloody. It was no matter. He’d been shot before, and the pain he was in now was nothing compared to having a bullet lodged in his body. Andras could deal with just a graze.

As he made his way to the dead soldiers, his eyes still scanning the area, Andras considered calling Lucien over but ultimately decided against it. Tamlin had warned him before they’d left that the kid had already seen too much violence in his eighteen years of life. Lucien’s training was mostly in politics and negotiation with limited lectures on dealing with mental trauma, and Andras didn’t want to add unnecessary burden.

The Prythian scout bent down near one of the corpses, going through the dead soldier’s uniform for anything identifying. Dog tags were the first thing Andras pocketed, followed by the soldier’s squadron insignia  which he carefully cut out using his tactical knife.

He had just gone through one of the uniform’s inner pockets when the sudden _crack_ of a gun report sent him falling onto his ass.

Only a moment had passed before Andras realized he was unhurt, and then another moment passed before his brain registered the sound of a body hitting the ground. He spun in a circle, looking for both the shot man and the shooter, but all he saw was Lucien jogging towards him with his dark face white as a sheet and a pistol in his hand.

The two entered the concrete checkpoint building and were met with a third foreign soldier dead on the floor. Sightless grey eyes stared right at them, already glazed in death. Lucien somehow paled even more, and Andras put a gentle hand on his back to steady him. The redhead smoothly stepped away from the touch, not saying anything, and Andras just nodded in acceptance.

_No physical contact when distressed,_ he thought to himself. _Noted._

Andras went to the body, stepping around the pool of blood from the back of the corpse’s skull. His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline at what he saw. “That’s some shot, Lucien.” A small hole was centered between the dead soldier’s eyes, with only a tiny trickle of blood leaking from it. That was the entrance wound a trained sniper would make, not a fresh trainee with a handgun from a hundred meters back while seeing action for the first time.

Lucien just grimaced and shrugged a shoulder. “He was leaning out the window to shoot you and you hadn’t noticed, so…” The student shrugged again, and Andras turned back to get the dead man’s dog tags.

This definitely needed to be radioed to Tamlin immediately.

* * *

 

Their walk to the nearest vehicle-accessible checkpoint passed in near silence. Only when the road came into view did Andras speak. “Where the hell did you learn to handle a gun like that?”

Lucien gave him a flat look, and Andras winced. Alright, not his most elegant or well-timed question, but he was _burning_ with the need to know how a wiry, studious, well-spoken eighteen year old could shoot like a sniper.

“I have six older brothers and my father is the Don of a mafia. One learns many things that way.” The response was sharp and terse, shutting off any further attempts at conversation.

Andras monitored the road for a little while before talking again. “Would you happen to be interested in sniper training?”

"No.”

Andras raised an eyebrow and looked at Lucien, who was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, russet eyes staring intently at the ground. “That was a fast answer. Think about it, ginger-toddler…”

He trailed off as the student beside him raised his head, Lucien’s glare burning him with its intensity. “My _name,_ ” said the redhead, his voice no louder than usual but carrying the blunt, cutting edge of a very pissed off diplomat, “is Lucien. Please use it. I am eighteen and just shot a man between the eyes, so I am _not a fucking toddler_.”

There was an awkward moment of silence as Andras stared, caught a little off guard at the outburst. “Touché,” he finally said. Lucien just watched him with that same unwavering gaze.

A plain black Jeep rumbled down the gravel road, and Andras heard Lucien mutter something along the lines of “fucking finally”. The Jeep screeched to a stop before them, spraying gravel at their feet. Andras wasted no time in climbing in, tossing his helmet and gear in the back and fumbling for his seat belt while making sure Lucien did the same. Not a second after the redhead’s ass touched the seat, the driver floored the gas pedal and they jack-rabbited into motion. Andras couldn’t help but laugh as Lucien braced himself on the headrest in front.

“Holy shit,” said the student. “I thought government hires at least knew how to fucking drive.”

“More or less,” said Andras, shrugging his shoulders. He immediately regretted it as the bullet graze protested, sending a spike of pain through his body. To both distract himself and Lucien, who was turning an impressive shade of green (maybe government hires really _didn’t_ know how to drive…), he continued talking. “What are your plans for tonight?”

"Are you serious?" Lucien blinked at Andras' nod, gritting his teeth as they hit a pothole in the road. “The usual, I guess. Study. Play guitar. Throw some knives down the range.”

Knives? _Interesting_ , thought Andras, and he filed that information away. “You’re forgetting something.”

The student sighed, rolling his eyes. “And spend two hours in the gym.”

“You’ll thank me after you’ve bulked up a little and stopped looking like a starved gazelle spray-painted red.”

“That makes me feel loads better, thank you.” Lucien gave the soldier a wry look, though the corners of his lips tugged upwards. Andras smiled and caught his reflection in Lucien’s window; laughing brown eyes, mussed and sweaty brown hair, pale skin that refused to tan. So different from Lucien’s russet, razor edged gaze and the wild contrast between his dark skin and long red hair.

But more than anything, Lucien had the look of a kid who’d been uprooted from everything he’d known and thrust into a world that was determined to spit him back out. Andras knew that look- it had been on his own face when he’d first started. Andras had had to sort it all out on his own, and damn it all if Lucien would also face it alone.

_Besides,_ reasoned Andras, _I’m only a few years older than him. We can’t be_ that _different._

“If you ever find yourself in need of company and the latest episode of _CSI:Miami_ , you can come to me.”

“That show is shit,” said Lucien, not even batting an eyelash. “I’ll stick with _Suits_.”

Well. Maybe they _were_ that different.

“I let under aged redheads drink my booze.”

Suddenly Andras had Lucien’s full attention. The sharp grin and gleam in the student’s eye told Andras that he’d said the right thing.

“I swear I won’t be hungover at any of my classes,” said Lucien, giving Andras’ hand a surprisingly strong shake. A scout’s honour salute followed, and Andras laughed as Lucien perverted the sign by tucking away two of the three fingers he’d held up, leaving only the middle finger. “But I can’t promise anything for Saturday mornings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter pretty much fresh off the press, so it's been through MINIMAL editing. There are many mistakes. If you find one, it'd be much appreciated if you'd let me know so I can fix it! I've also discovered I SUCK at writing action scenes and condensed dialogue, so apologies and thank you for suffering with me. Ugh, I need to practice. 
> 
> I'll be starting university in a week *shudder*, which means things will probably slow down. But I will still write, and the more motivation I have the faster things will get posted! I still have a couple requests I'm working on, but keep them coming! Kudos make my day, comments melt my heart, and thank you for reading! 
> 
> Have a nice day!

**Author's Note:**

> Now that the stage has been set, the real drama can start! Rose was meant to pop in, introduce Andras and pop out, but she kind of wrote herself. The oath she's referring to is the Hippocratic oath. I have a feeling she'll be back plenty with our favourite foxboy. Please submit requests of what you want to see, I'm willing to write pretty much anything! I'm off school right now, so updates won't be extraordinarily long in coming. Constructive criticism is welcomed!


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